A Play of Pawns
by Daemon hunter
Summary: As one Judge Magister headed for Dalmasca, another commited high treason. And the fallout from both events will once more see a familiar group of heroes thrown into a quest they never asked for. AU-ish
1. A Royal Signiture

_A Play of Pawns_

_Summary:_ As one Judge Magister heads for Dalmasca, another prepares to commit high treason. And the fallout from both events will once more see a familiar group of heroes thrown into a quest they never asked for.

_Author notes: _Right so here's my first attempt at Final Fantasy XII fanfiction. First off, here's the general disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy XII. I only own original characters and locations. I don't apologize for spoilers. It's your fault for not finishing the game first.

Chapter 1 – A Royal Signiture

The hour was late yet still Larsa Solidor persisted. His workload was always immense, far more than he imagined it would be years ago. He was tired and tempted almost beyond restraint to retire for the evening. But that wasn't possible. The price of a few hours extra sleep would be another load of paper atop this one when the morning came. Archadia had to come first and she's an impatient mistress.

Still, surely even she would forgive him a few moments respite.

Rubbing his eyes, Larsa put his golden pen down beside his inkwell. The letter on the table, half written, fluttered slightly at the corners. A breeze came through the window, gently tickling his exposed face and lower arms. He must've opened it hours ago. Yes, the heat of the day had been stifling. It was only now he thought on it that he'd been here for hours. Larsa remembered not how many. He'd lost all perception of time in a haze of parchment and eloquently bandied words.

Seizing a small paperweight, Larsa placed it on the letter to the side where it wouldn't smudge the ink. Confident it wouldn't blow away he strolled past his desk towards the open window. The breeze whistled in his ears again, sending the curtains dancing. Larsa's hand rested on the frame. The breeze was pleasant; it helped clear away the cobwebs in his mind. His hand dropped back to his side and Larsa looked out over his domain.

Archadia was like an oyster, hard and strong. Within lay its pearl the royal city of Archades. For five generations before him, Larsa's ancestors had ruled it all from this room. To Larsa's eye the city was the finest in the world, even when shrouded by night. Its streets were clean, its citizens well fed and its citadel cast a shadow over all. Now the city sparkled with thousands upon thousands of golden lights, more even than in the skies above. He was proud to rule such a beautiful place.

He stood there, gazing out over the city, taking it all in and keeping his mind empty. He imagined that people of all ages and class were in those streets now, enjoying themselves with friends or family. The thought struck a chord. Here, at the top of the world, Larsa had neither. His family was dead, his so-called friends philanderers and charlatans all who saw not a man but advancement in Larsa. His only true friend in the whole of Archadia was gone – away on diplomatic business.

Gabranth departed southbound several days ago. It had been with a heavy heart that Larsa had sent him away but who better to treat with Dalmasca than a man who'd bled for her? He was sure Queen Ashe would've listened to any Archadian envoy, but when it had come down to it Larsa had remembered something Penelo once said.

"_But still, I hope he comes back to Rabanastre, and Ashe, soon. She has to keep up appearances now, so she would never say it but I think she misses him."_

Larsa was of the same mind. He also believed the feeling wasn't one sided. When Larsa had shown him that particular letter in the grounds of the palace two years ago, Gabranth hadn't said a word. But Larsa could see it clearly.

The official treaty signing seemed a delightful way to put an end to their suffering, if only for a while. Indeed, though he missed his friend, Larsa was smugly proud of himself. But if only he could put an end to his own loneliness…

No, he thought, he wouldn't think on that. It wouldn't make him feel any better if he did. Besides he had letters to write and another mistress as beautiful as Archadia he was very eager to lie with. Her name was bed, the only other woman Archadia would suffer in his life.

The chair was still warm when he sat down again. He picked up his pen, and looked at what he'd written so far.

_To his Grace, Arinus Hartel, 6__th__ Duke of Silisair,_

_I must give thanks for your recent correspondence. It was with great sadness that I read of the Lord Consul's assassination. He shall be interred with the highest of honours under the soil of his homeland at the request of his family. He shall be sorely missed_

_Alas__ that now leaves Landis without a Consul. It is my understanding that Lord Adrian has assumed the mantel until a new Consul is to be chosen. I have written another letter to the Lord informing him that his tenure is merely temporary. Being Archadian born, I think not that he would make a good replacement. It is my belief that the people of Landis desire a Consul from among their fellow countrymen, as Lord Leris was._

_I believe that you, your Grace, are the best suited candidate for the position. I ask that you depart for Landisalia immediately and make your presence known. I recall that you have been a hero to your people since the war and your popularity remains undiminished. They will be encouraged by your presence. A royal herald shall arrive shortly in the city detailing your ascendancy. You shall be officially inaugurated in two months time with the coming of the New Year. I offer you my congratulations._

_However I must confess that I have an ulterior motive for your promotion aside from your popularity. In reference to the other point you raised in the letter I am in agreement with you. The Insurgency is almost certainly behind this. I ask that you investigate into whatever leads __you can find and unravel their schemes. I trust this task only to you._

_Any traitors you find are to be arrested and sent to Archades to stand trial. Let all Ivalice see the fate that awaits the enemies of Archadia._

Larsa dipped the pen into the inkwell and added at the bottom:

_Do not fail me._

_Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, 24__th__ Duke of Archades, Liege of the Archadian Empire and Lord High Protector of Landis and Nabradia._

_P.S. I hope my last letter found Delana well. Ask her for me and give her my regards._

Now finished, Larsa set aside the letter and chose another from his left at random. He instantly recognised the handwriting on the envelope. It could be no other but the mayor of Old Archades. No doubt he would be subtly and respectfully deconstructing Larsa's efforts to aid the impoverished and offering 'suggestions' of how those efforts could be improved. All the man ever wanted was more money but he always had to make a song and dance about it. Still, better see what he wanted money for this time.

Galtea was merciful. Just as the wax seal broke, someone knocked at the door. He didn't recognise the knock but it was heavy and clearly made by an armoured fist. Most likely it was one of the Judges standing guard outside the door.

"Enter," Larsa said, throwing the letter back onto his desk.

It _was_ a Judge but not one of the door sentries. Off-hand he didn't recognise the person. The armour was black and well polished, the helm simple and alien to him. The weapons at the Judge's belt caught Larsa's eye swiftly. A Morningstar, a rare though not unused weapon among the College of Magisters, hung on his left side, clearly his favoured weapon. On his right was a more conventional sword. Larsa presumed he was a minor Judge of a lesser bureau, probably sent to deliver a message.

The Judge stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Larsa Solidor," the Judge said. The voice was masculine. "Larsa Solidor..."

"Yes, I am Larsa Solidor," he said politely, ignoring the strange greeting. "I don't believe I've made your acquaintance."

The Judge didn't appear to hear him. "Larsa Solidor…"

The Judge sounded almost star-struck. As the most famous and powerful person in the empire Larsa was used to people acting in such a fashion around him. But never before had a Judge done so.

Larsa stood again. Though he had grown in the last three years, Larsa still didn't come close to the shoulder of this Judge. "Yes, I am he. But I ask again who are you? Which bureau do you belong to?"

The Judge finally turned to look at him. Larsa couldn't see the man's eyes but that wasn't uncommon. He could never see Gabranth's eyes when he wore his helm. Galtea knows how they managed to find their way around.

"You know me not little emperor? Oh but I know you. I know you very well. Larsa Solidor…"

Larsa didn't like the tone this Judge was taking. "State your name, bureau and business with me."

The Judge laughed. "Look at this. The child emperor a man almost grown, confident in himself in all ways, leader of men and the glorious Archadian Empire. Never before has Archadia known the peace it does today and never before has it known such power."

Another sycophant. Larsa sat down again and took the letter from the desk. "I'm very busy Judge Magister. Please state your name, bureau and business with me," he said, no longer looking at the Judge.

"My name, bureau and business? Very well child emperor, if you insist. My name… well your people shall know soon enough. As for my bureau, I am unaffiliated with any bureau of the College of Magisters. And my business. Oh my business is of immense interest to you, Larsa Solidor."

Larsa's eyes travelled back to the Judge. No bureau? A rogue Judge. Dangerous indeed, particularly armed in a room with a person who's only weapon to hand was a letter opener. Though it was blunt, he reached for it all the same. The weight of it in Larsa's hand was reassuring.

"What is your business then, Rogue?"

"Rogue?" the Judge paused, almost as though he had been wounded by the weight of Larsa's words. "Yes I suppose I am. But no matter. My business is very simple, Larsa Solidor."

The Judge drew his sword with his left hand.

"I am here to kill you."

Larsa's eyes wandered to the sword. His words made little impression on him, as though he had spoken in another language. But the first heavy step the Judge took towards him said all that needed to be said. He was _deadly_ serious.

The Judge came towards the desk and Larsa jumped out of the chair. His shins gently touched the chair as he backed away. Larsa, without taking his eyes off the slowly approaching Judge, dodged behind it.

"An assassin who knocks. How polite," Larsa sneered sarcastically. "Guards!" The hand gripping the letter opener shook, the knuckles whitened. He held the useless length of metal defensively. The Judge laughed. At his comment or his weapon? It couldn't harm a normal person. What hope did Larsa have of wounding this heavily armoured Judge?

No wonder he laughed. And where were those guards?

"Indeed," the Judge answered. "One must follow the proper etiquette when one desires an audience with an emperor."

"Then you have broken with protocol on a horrendous scale. Nowhere, I think you will find is it considered good manners to draw steel in royal presence. Guards! Arrest this man."

"They won't help you. And perchance I have broken with protocol. But it hardly matters. Your offence shall die with you, Larsa Solidor."

The Judge stepped around the left side of the table, sword held carelessly aloft. Larsa seized his chance. Before the Judge could react, he darted out from the 'safety' of his chair. The sword swung at him but Larsa was too quick. He dodged the desk, ran to the door and pulled it open. He glimpsed the Judge begin towards him as he slammed the door.

Larsa quickly found the key. His fingers fumbled with it. The lock seemed to move away from the key. Finally with a jab he slotted it in. A turn of a key, a click and the door was locked.

And not a moment too soon. The handle was tried violently. The door shook in its frame. But the lock held. It wouldn't hold for long though. It would give Larsa just enough time to find his guards. He backed away a step then turned. He stopped dead in his tracks.

He knew where his guards were.

The two lesser Judges lay on the floor. One of them was face down, limps spread-eagled whereas the other was sat against the wall, head looking limply into his lap. There was a broken sword in his hand. When had this happened? Whenever it had, it was brutal. Blood pooled beneath them and was splattered on the wall.

Larsa tasted bile on his tongue. He wanted to wretch at the picture of violent destruction but he couldn't. The fear for his life was still too great. The assassin's Morningstar had started to work its way through the barrier. Long gashes had already been torn clear. It wouldn't last. He knelt besides the Judge lying face down.

The sword was still sheathed but it was lying partially under him. It would be difficult and it would be close, but Larsa was sure he'd be able to get it out in time, if it wasn't broken of course. The weight of the man and his armour kept the sword in place. Larsa wiggled it in its sheath. It came gradually, inch by inch. Another splinter was taken out of the door.

"Futile. You seek to stop me, Larsa Solidor?" he heard the Judge say. "You live on borrowed time. You should run while you can."

Larsa ignored him. Another inch of sword was worked free. Too slow. Beads of sweat trickled down Larsa's face. Exertion or fear? He didn't care. He worked the sword further. His fringe fell into his eyes. The door was almost demolished. Not much time now. Only half a foot of blade was free. Hopefully it would be enough. Larsa pulled with all his strength.

Another half foot came free. The tension on the blade was lessened and finally disappeared. No more lay beneath the late Judge. With one last pull, Larsa withdrew the sword. He staggered to his feet and took defensive stance, waiting. He kept the letter opener in his other hand. It could prove useful. But the door was half demolished. Larsa's nerve broke.

'_I cannot face him alone.'_

He took his hunter's advice. He ran.

The corridors of the Imperial Levels of the palace were quiet, even for the late hour. Larsa feared. What had befallen the staff of the palace? Were they safe, oblivious to the carnage in the drawing room? Or had they too paid witness to it? He had no time to think of anyone else. Nothing mattered now except getting to the guards barracks five floors down.

Larsa didn't dare look behind him. The legendary Pylraster could've been chasing him and he wouldn't have known. The fear excluded all around him. All he cared about was getting to safety. By now the assassin must've broken through the door. He'd be pursuing him without doubt. But he didn't dare look.

He rounded a corner, then another, then another. Larsa had no idea where he was. His mind drowned out the details. His feet found the way of their own accord. The steel in his hands weighed him down but Larsa didn't dare part with it. If he was caught, it was the only thing standing between him and the fate of his guards.

One more corner and he found the staircase. Not hesitating for a minute Larsa hurled himself down them, barely managing to stay on his feet. He passed two landings, then a third and a fourth. At the fifth he ducked through the passageway and found himself in the main corridor.

'_Thank the gods!'_

Judge Zargabaath was walking up the corridor towards him. He didn't seem to have noticed Larsa's entrance. Regardless he felt all the better knowing his most loyal defender was here.

"Zargabaath!" Larsa cried, dashing towards him.

The Judge looked up. He stopped where he was, bewildered perhaps. In moments Larsa was at his side. He bent over to catch his breath, staring at Zargabaath's boots.

"Judge Magister," Larsa started, still breathless. "Pray, I require… your aid. I am being… hunted. A Rogue Judge chases me. He has already drawn blood tonight. We must find him and put a stop to his foul deeds. Summon the guard."

With his breath back Larsa straightened again. Zargabaath was staring at him intently, even more confused than before most likely.

"…Larsa Solidor."

A year long pause.

"Magister?"

Before Larsa could react, Zargabaath's hand was at his throat. The cold metal squeezed the air from his lungs. He couldn't breathe. Good god what was happening? Larsa dropped his sword but held on to the letter opener. On impulse he slashed at the Judge's wrist. Nothing, not even a scratch. He tried again but this time Zargabaath wrenched the knife from his grasp and threw it to the side. Larsa watched it hit the wall and fall behind a statue of Emperor Jezal.

Larsa stared back into the impassive mask of the man he'd taken to be a loyal servant. There was no telling what Zargabaath was thinking. He tried to speak. He had no breath to do so. His sight was beginning to darken around the edges.

Just as he thought he'd breathed his last, Larsa was thrown to the ground. Air! Oh glorious air! He took in a deep, shuddering breath. It burned in his lungs but he didn't care. He could breathe again. With that though came a series of violent coughs. He rolled onto his side shuddering. He was alive though.

But the shadow loomed over him. Zargabaath stood there calm as the dead. He looked down at the young emperor and again Larsa felt fear take him. He slowly tried to crawl away, all the while looking at him and wondering why.

"You…" Larsa began coughing again. "You've betrayed me Zargabaath. You shall hang for this."

The threat was hardly likely to affect the Magister, Larsa knew. All the same his newly kindled hatred for Zargabaath raged inside him. He tried to reach for his sword. It was put a few inches from his reaching fingers.

Then the Magister crushed them beneath his armoured foot.

Larsa howled with pain. Lances of pain from his shattered fingers made their way up his arm and back again. Surely someone must have heard him. Aid must be forthcoming. Surely… Zargabaath removed his foot and Larsa cradled his wounded hand. Without doubt all four fingers were broken. Defiance wouldn't help him now.

"Zargabaath please. Don't do this. I'll give you whatever your heart desires. Anything."

Larsa despised himself. Begging for his life in such an undignified manner disgusted him. But he couldn't help it. He'd pay any price to live to see tomorrow. For a moment Larsa had the temerity to hope he'd appealed to Zargabaath. The Magister only looked at the emperor, his mask giving nothing away. He stooped down. His hand stretched towards him, palm upwards in charity. Larsa reached toward it.

Zargabaath was toying with him.

His palm inverted and grabbed the front of Larsa's tunic. Zargabaath grabbed the discarded sword and walked on once more, dragging Larsa along the floor behind him. Larsa felt shamed but again the urge of self-preservation overrode all else. All he cared about was survival. If only he hadn't dropped the damn sword.

In that moment Larsa swore a vow. There would be no more pleading, no more negotiation for it would avail him naught. He would salve his wounded pride and hold his words. He drained his face of all emotion and bit down on his tongue to stop himself screaming from the pain. Screaming would be pointless. He knew deep down that no-one would save him now.

Larsa was only half aware where he was being dragged too until they came to the stairs. With no apparent effort, Zargabaath hauled him up the stairs he'd fled down not five minutes before. He stared at the ceiling and tried to ignore the pain in his broken fingers. Why was this happening? Why had Zargabaath betrayed him?

They came out of the stairwell and before long Larsa was thrown to the floor once again. He glanced to his left and saw a body. The body of his slain guard. He'd been brought back to the drawing room.

"I hope you weren't too harsh with him."

The voice chilled Larsa to the core. It was the assassin. And this time there would be no escape.

"No, my lord," replied Zargabaath. His voice sounded a shade lower than usual to Larsa. "I applied only what force necessary to prevent Solidor from escaping."

"Good. After all," the helmet of the Judge came into Larsa's view. He was looking at him, "we need him… intact."

"What do you need me for, treacherous swine?" Larsa spat. His fear still shook him but his defiant streak no longer listened.

"Need of you? I need but one thing from you Larsa Solidor."

He was lifted up again, whether by Zargabaath or by the assassin Larsa neither knew nor cared. It was really just semantics either way. He tried to look his captors in the face but the world seemed to spin. He was thrown into something soft. His chair. Everything was as it had been left save the door. The letter from the Mayor of Old Archades was still on the desk.

The assassin slammed something down on his desk in front of him. A piece of parchment.

"Sign this," he ordered.

Larsa made a show of reading it. His brows rose in surprise. So this was what all this was about.

"Sign it," the assassin yelled.

Larsa smiled at him defiantly. "I can't." He held up his right hand, ignoring the pain. "Your servant broke my fingers."

The assassin pressed the pen into Larsa's left hand. "I don't care. Sign it."

"No."

"Sign it or what this idiot has done to you," he gestured at Zargabaath, "will be a veritable picnic compared to what I will do."

Larsa threw the pen at the assassin. It bounced off his helm. It pleased Larsa to see the assassin getting angrier and angrier.

"Very well, your signature can be forged," he said, snatching the letter to the Duke of Silisair off the desk. "Your sword, Zargabaath."

The traitor unsheathed his blade for the first time that evening and handed it dutifully to his new master. Larsa felt the defiance in him die. His fingernails dug into the arms of the chair.

"It was a pleasure to meet you Larsa Solidor."

There was no flourish, there was no finesse. It was quick, it was brutal and most of all it hurt like hell. Larsa barely comprehended the sword now pinning him to the chair. All he could feel was the pain. He watched listlessly as his blood gushed red over the blade, over the chair and over himself. He started to cough again. Blood trickled out of his mouth. Then the pain increased tenfold as the sword was removed.

'_How much I must look like King Raminas.'_ What would his death cause, he wondered?

Larsa tried to stand. But he felt so tired, so drained. He fell onto his desk. The desk was good. He could rest his head here. Yes, rest. Then the pain would go away.

Still, he wished Penelo was here. She would look after him. Then once he recovered, he would thank her and show her his appreciation.

He closed his eyes.


	2. Cold Receptions

Chapter 2 - Cold Receptions

The Dalmascan Estersand was quiet. The midday sun blazed overhead, leaving few wolves or cockatrices to be seen on the sands. Most slept off the heat as best they could in whatever shelter they could find. Those scant few hunters that braved the uncomfortable warmth were the only ones to bare witness to the big yellow bird crossing the sands. Seconds after catching that glimpse, they fell down dead, an arrow piercing their flesh.

Basch was pleased to see that his aim was as good as ever it once had been. For the last three years, he'd had nothing to practice on but straw targets in Archades. It was a skill he'd never thought he'd have to use again, but a good warrior always seeks to hone his skills, in peace or at war. During his disastrous journey, Basch's aim had been found itself needed more than once along the way. Those hours wasted practicing didn't seem so wasted anymore.

What should've been a simple, day-long flight from Archades to Rabanastre had become a three day journey split between riding and flight. When he had finally managed to arrive in Nalbina (two days late), the first thing that hit Basch was the heat. Compared to Archadia's milder clime, Dalmasca's was sheer torment from the moment he stepped off the airship from Balfonheim. To make matters worse, a connecting flight to Rabanastre was out of the question. So now he rode a Chocobo, forgetting at first that in the desert it was even worse.

He soon remembered.

Inside the full suit of Magister's armour, Basch felt like he was in an oven, being slowly cooked alive. For the first time since arriving in Dalmasca, Basch dared to remove his helmet, uncaring if a random passer-by recognised him for who he was. The occasional breeze was worth it. He rode on, half expecting to see his destination before him with every dune he crested, and fully disappointed each time Rabanastre was nowhere to be found. He shifted in the saddle, trying to find an ever elusive comfortable position to sit in.

All the discomfort was worth the reward. Halfway up another large sand dune, Basch first spotted the tall, elegant spires of the cathedral and the palace. Seeing them, he felt more than a simple relief that the journey was almost over. He dug his knees into the Chocobo's flanks. She responded at once. The wind picked up speed. It was blessedly cooler than the desert breeze. It made his eyes water, but he didn't dare blink, lest the spires should disappear.

Then he was on top of the dune. And at the bottom, lay Rabanastre. In his heart, Basch felt a sudden, wild elation. It was the first time he'd seen the city since the sinking of the Bahamut. Three long years since he said goodbye to the country that had sheltered him after the fall of Landis. Three long years since he'd seen or heard from the friends he'd made during the long journey across Ivalice. In Archades, he never had time to think on it. Now he was here, the long separation pained him. All the same, for the first time since he'd set out from Archades, Basch smiled to himself.

Like a lover long estranged from his partner, Basch was desperate to return into her outstretched arms. He patted the Chocobo on the neck. She mewed in content but seemed to understand she was about to be driven. Despite the heat, he took the opportunity to put his helmet back on. It would be too dangerous to go without in the city he loved. Where his business was to take him, the risk of identification was high. That could only have ill consequences.

From atop the dune, the way was clear; flat and straight all the way to the east gate. He nudged her again and they took off down the hill. The pace, though initially slow, built up momentum as they descended the dune. By the time they reached the bottom, the Chocobo had broken into a light run.

"Sprint Sabetha," Basch encouraged her, nudging her again with his armoured knees.

Whether it was by his words or by his nudge, Sabetha began to run in earnest. The wind howled in his ears and, though it would be cooler without, Basch was thankful for the helmet. A tumultuous amount of sand was whipped up in the wind.

She kept up the pace and Basch revelled in it. He raced down the home straight, and for the victor, the spoils waited at the finish line. His pulse quickened and throbbed in his ears. The exhilaration was unlike anything he'd felt in years. All the chains of secrecy and politics were cast off in that moment. He felt lighter. He was himself again, and it was sweetest simplicity. It was something unattainable for men like him, except in sweet, short snatches. And he would reach for those moments with both hands for there was no knowing if they would ever come around again.

They flew across the sands, Basch's mind connected imperceptibly with Sabetha's. She obeyed his every command. The wind snatched at his cloak, sending it streaming like a battle standard behind him. Though his helm protected him from the worst, the wind still made his eyes water. Or perhaps they were tears. He had no way of knowing. He didn't care. Rabanastre was so close now he could taste it on the air.

Then the Chocobo began to tire and slowed her pace. He longed for more but the moment had now passed. The chains wrapped themselves around him like invisible snakes once again. He was once more Judge Magister Gabranth. Another sprint across the sands would achieve nothing now, except perhaps to kill the exhausted Sabetha, an auspicious omen he'd rather avoid.

Only when they slowed did he notice the airships flying majestically through the sky. They were of all shapes, sizes and colours. One, he fancied, looked like the Strahl, but it was gone before he could get a second glance. It probably wasn't. Who knew wither the sky pirates wandered?

At long last, the shadows of the walls fell over them. Similar to Nalbina, the only perceptible change was the trade of Imperial soldiers for Dalmascan ones. Basch immediately recognised the uniform belonging to the Rabanastre Watch, lower in rank than the Order, but ruled by none in Rabanastre but the Queen they served. Three of them, two Humes led by a Bangaa, were the first to approach but not the first to stare.

"Welcome to Rabanastre, Judge Magister," the Bangaa said as Basch dismounted. "If I might be so bold as to enquire into your business here…"

There was hostility in his tone. Basch had expected nothing less.

"I am here to treat with Queen Ashelia. She has been expecting me these several days, but alas the East Ivalice Company is not what it once was. You shall take me to the palace immediately."

The Bangaa bristled. "Very well," he replied, no longer trying to mask his contempt. "I'll send a messenger ahead to-"

"Save yourself the effort," Basch interrupted. "I need not be announced."

"…Alright then but no funny business… or else." Suspicion. Yes, Basch had expected that too. Dalmascans were quick to anger and slow to forgive. Basch could testify to that personally.

The Bangaa led the way to the gate, his two underlings following behind Basch. In such a procession, he looked more like the prisoner he was five years ago than the visiting dignitary of the present. As far as the Rabanastans were concerned, he had the same sort of lowly status.

The hisses started almost as soon as he'd climbed the steps to the Southern Plaza. The people wandering about didn't notice him at first. They were too busy concerned with their own business. But when one of the people sat by the fountain raised the cry of 'Judge' that soon changed. The plaza had gone so quiet, so fast it was almost as though magic were involved. All eyes seemed to stop and rest on him. They froze and so did Basch.

The moment was only broken when one nearby person spat at him. Suddenly the spell was lifted. Most hadn't the audacity to even come close but they hissed, booed and shouted threats, insults and obscenities both at himself and at Archadia. Not the welcome home Basch had wanted, though he could hardly say their hatred surprised him. Still it was the armour they hated. Underneath he was but a man and the man was pleased to be home. Their scorn couldn't dampen that.

"Doesn't look like you're too popular 'round these parts," the Bangaa said after they'd made their way through the hateful crowd.

"So it would seem," Basch answered vaguely.

"I'd watch my back if I were you."

"My thanks for the advice." To Basch's relief, the Bangaa said no more.

They made their way on through the East End. The reception here too was far cooler than the Dalmascan day. People of all races watched him pass and all but the few Viera on the streets glared at him with hatred. Not that any friendliness came from that quarter. The Viera were merely aloof. Basch was just another Hume to them, no better and no worse than the rest, and he knew that well.

They kept their pace and soon arrived in the North End. The Rabanastans here were no friendlier than anywhere else. They kept their distance and watched him like hawks. On occasion, a child or two came close, insulted him on a dare and fled back into the crowd. Each time, they closed ranks around the children. Basch could see they wished they had the bravery to do the same. Acting as a hume wall was as much as the dared do.

The journey soon became quieter as they moved on to the Palace District. Virtually no-one was around. Only on special occasions did the people throng these streets to catch a glimpse of the woman who had ruled them well for three years. Now was not such an occasion. The people here were instead of similar rank to Basch. They had too much to lose by acting like the mob and either ignored him or inclined their heads.

At the gates to the palace, far more soldiers were on guard than even at the east gate. Basch was surprised to see that he recognised some of them. Members of the Order of the Knights of Dalmasca. He'd thought most of them had perished at Nalbina but here they stood, alive and well. If only the circumstances were different, he too might've been standing guard, joking and dicing with the rest.

"Captain Felmis," the Bangaa called. The man he called looked up from the game of dice his men were playing. He was up in a flash once he spotted Basch. The Magister's armour had that effect on the upper echelons of society wherever he went.

"All is well, Sergeant Ronsar," Felmis replied, calmly but firmly. "I'll take over from here."

The Bangaa called Ronsar saluted, then he and his two men headed back to the north end. Basch recognized the look on Ronsar's face as he'd passed. He'd been glad to be rid of the unwanted burden.

"Judge Magister Gabranth, I presume." Basch nodded, daring not to speak. "The Queen is most eager to meet with you. I've been informed to tell you that she shall be occupied until sunset. Her Majesty apologizes for the delay."

The Captain looked for some acknowledgment from Basch. He played it safe and nodded again. Though he didn't recognize this Felmis, that wasn't to say Felmis wouldn't recognize him. The knights too no longer played their game with much gusto as they paid attention to the exchange.

If the captain was affronted by Basch's lacklustre response, he hid it well. "I am to show you some quarters until her Majesty is ready for you. Please follow me."

Once again Basch nodded and followed through the gate. He was back in the palace grounds.

Deep down, he knew this was where he was meant to be.

000000

Ashelia obviously had a long memory. Either that or a member of the household was trying to be ironic. It was all too coincidental, the quarters Basch was shown happened to be the exact same ones he used to live in, back before he had been demonized as a Kingslayer. It was all too coincidental also that the quarters had been almost untouched since then.

There were only two real differences to the room he remembered. The first was the wardrobe full of clothes that looked to be roughly his size. The second was a portrait on the wall.

It dominated Basch's attention as soon as he noticed it. The portrait was of Ashelia. She sat regally in the centre of the frame, wearing a golden circlet on her head and a steel breastplate over her dress. Her back was held ramrod straight and rather than look outwards, like in most royal portraits, Ashelia instead stared down at her lap and at the blade that rested on it. The bejewelled hilt lay in her right hand. Her left rested on a map of the Galtean peninsula. In the background, the canvas of blue was dominated by the imposing figure of the Sky Fortress Bahamut.

Basch was unable to take his eyes away from the picture. For a royal portrait, it was different than he would usually expect. The way she cast her eyes downward… he wondered why that was. Rather than divine, she looked quite human and displayed human emotion. But what was it? Was it grace or was it sadness?

He was distracted by a knock on the door. Before he could even open his mouth, a maid barged through the door.

"Good afternoon, your Honour," she said. "I was told to bring you this," she nodded down to the wash basin in her hands. She crossed the room and placed it down on the nightstand by the bed.

"My thanks." Basch decided not to say anything about her not knocking. To his surprise (and slight irritation) she didn't turn to leave.

"Do you like the queen's portrait?"

The question caught him of guard. "Oh yes, it's – it's lovely."

"I think so too," she said, stepping up to get a closer look at it.

"If that is all?" Basch said after some few seconds, now eager to be rid of her.

The maid took the hint. She made a graceless curtsey and turned to leave. He followed her as she walked and closed the door behind her, turning the key in the lock for good measure. It clicked and just to be sure, Basch tried the door. It held just as well as it used to.

Until now the only parts of his armour he'd shed were his helmet and gauntlets. The prospect of having a wash was indeed a welcome one. Without the need to look, Basch fumbled the straps of his vambraces and after a few seconds effort one fell to the floor, soon accompanied by its brother. Once the rerebraces followed suit, he took a moment to knead his aching biceps. Sweat continued to trickle down his arms but the small massage did wonders.

His arms now bare of armour, Basch removed the metal boots, followed by the greaves and then the cuisses. His thighs and particularly his calf muscles pained him worse than his arms had. Without gentleness, he pressed his fingertips hard into the skin. The sensation was somewhat painful in itself but the relief it brought afterward was indescribable. Unconsciously, he moaned with pleasure each time his fingers found a sore spot. A shiver would work its way up his spine.

Finally the pauldrons and breastplate came away, leaving his shirt of chainmail. That too was swiftly removed. He was so familiar with the armour that all the parts lay scattered haphazardly on the floor within minutes. The simple clothes Basch wore underneath were as sticky as the clime. They clung to his body as intimately as a lover.

'_Thank Galtea I thought to wear little underneath the armour.'_

Had he worn more than the simple shirt and trousers, chances were he would've died of heatstroke on the Estersand.

Basch moved over to the small wardrobe. Without really looking at the garments within, he picked up the first that came to hand and laid them on the bed. Testing the water in the wash basin with a finger, he found it was warm from the afternoon heat, but it would still do.

The sweat stained clothes swiftly joined the armour on the floor. Briefly, Basch regarded his nude form in the mirror. It was an odd sight. After wearing the armour for so long, it almost felt like his true skin. He was so used to it that sometimes he would forget what he truly looked like beneath. Now was one of those times.

Thinking no more on it, Basch turned to the basin and quickly doused his face, arms, chest and what he could reach of his back. The water was still refreshingly cool after the torturous heat. He almost upended the basin over his head but decided against it at the last moment. It would cause a mess. However, he dunked his face into the large bowl, rubbing his face and scalp vigorously until his lungs began to burn.

He took a deep breath, then another and another and did the same again until he couldn't stand the lack of oxygen any longer. At long last, Basch finally felt cool. Droplets of water fell out of his short hair and trickled pleasantly down his neck and back. One found its way down his spine. The shiver of pleasure was impossible to repress. Now clean, he hunted through the cupboard once again for a towel.

After drying himself off and dressing in the clean clothes, Basch arranged his discarded armour into a neat pile on the ground. The clothes he didn't know what to do with. After a moment's consideration he folded them and threw them on the foot of the bed. Speaking of the bed…

Now the pain in his muscles and joints had receded, his tiredness came to the fore. There was no telling how much longer it would be until Ashelia was free to see him. She was naught if not dedicated to her country. He didn't doubt that she would work around the clock if she didn't need to eat and sleep like everyone else. Basch admired that quality in her, as well as many others. She was a woman made to sit on the throne.

Sunset was still quite a stretch away. Basch banished all thought from his mind. He left the sheets the way they were and lay on top of them. It would take a while before he got used to Dalmascan springtime again.

000000

The room was dark when Basch awoke. The moonlight shining through his window gave the room (and his armour in particular) an ethereal look, as though he'd gone to another dimension in his sleep. What had woken him?

Something to his left was scrapping. The door handle! It was being tried. Basch reached for the hilt of the closest sword. As his fingers found the grip, the person knocked on the door, placating him. An assassin wouldn't knock.

"Judge Gabranth! Judge Gabranth, are you there?" He didn't recognise the voice but it was clearly a woman's. She incessantly knocked on the door again. "Judge Gabranth?"

Basch swung his legs onto the floor and pinched the bridge of his nose to wipe the sleep away. "Aye," he called, "What is it?"

"Queen Ashe wishes to see you, your Honour."

Basch looked out the window. How long had he been asleep? It felt like his eyes had only been closed for a few minutes.

The woman tried the handle again.

"What do you want woman?" he asked, irritated.

"I'm to escort you to her now."

He almost called back that he could find his own way but he bit his tongue in time. _Gabranth _didn't know the way.

"Would you have me address the Queen wearing naught?" he asked.

The knocking stopped and the door handle was still. Good, that was all the answer he needed.

What he'd said was a lie, of course, but it would give him time to put on his armour at least. The wick of the candle on his dresser suddenly blackened as a flame roared its way into existence. All it had taken was a simple word of command from Basch. With the room lit, the ethereal glow disappeared. It looked normal again.

He put the armour on again in reverse. It took slightly longer to dress but soon enough Basch was ready. He considered the gauntlets on the table and the swords leaning against the dresser. He left the swords where they were but picked up and put on the gauntlets. Finally Basch picked up his helm and the world suddenly shrank to what lay in the path of his visor. All to the sides was obscured. He then made his way to the door, turned the lock and extinguished the candle.

The girl waiting for him in the well-lit corridor was rather pretty, Basch supposed. He didn't recognise her fortunately. She must be new. The small frame, the long, curly blonde hair and the big brown eyes were all alien to him. She took a step back when she saw him but disguised it with a curtsey.

"I'm sorry I disturbed you, your Honour." She genuinely looked it.

Basch waved her apology aside. It wasn't necessary. "No need to apologize. Lead the way."

The girl curtseyed again and set off down the corridor. It took all of Basch's concentration not to appear too confident in his stride. She'd surely smell a rat if he walked any more purposively. After all, Judge Gabranth had only visited the royal palace of Rabanastre once before now, when Vayne had been Consul. Not that either of them knew that.

The way was short and before long they were outside a familiar door. It led to the parlour where the late King Raminas formally played host to foreign dignitaries. The very doors were grander than most others. That was the whole point. The room within was supposed to be intimidating and a reminder of Dalmasca's wealth and power. Ashelia had obviously continued the tradition.

The girl knocked.

"Enter."

It had been a long time since he had heard that voice. It stirred something within and put a relieved smile on his face. The girl pushed the door open and led Basch within. And there she was.

Queen Ashelia didn't even look up from her focused gaze on the table. Despite that, it was obvious that her beauty went undiminished by either time or politics. Even the deep, furrowed wrinkles of concentration on her forehead appeared youthful. Her head was propped up on her hand, three fingers supporting under her chin while her nose rested on the index finger. She had the look of the easily distracted. She, more than most, had things to be distracted about.

"Your majesty, Judge Gabranth," the servant called.

"Leave us," Ashelia said, still not looking up from the table. "And if I catch you listening at the door again, Larina, there will be blood."

Basch noted that the severity of Ashelia's words didn't at all affect the girl. She merely curtseyed, once to Basch, once to the queen and then left the room.

"Lock the door."

Basch complied, finding the key already in the lock and turned it until he heard the resolute sound of a door made secure. He knew better than to ask why she wanted the door locked. She would tell him.

"Remove your helmet."

Once more, Basch complied, swiftly removing the helmet and laying it on the table. Ashelia's chin tilted just a bit. He saw her gaze into the visor of the helmet. Then she turned her attention back to the table as though Basch wasn't even in the room.

"Majesty-"

Ashelia raised her free hand and his words died in his mouth. It would be she who would make the first move. The second hand on the clock dominated the room with its slow ticking. Basch waited patiently. His life had taught him the value of patience.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Ashelia looked at him. Even from across the room he could feel the frigidity of her glare. It simmered and waxed cold, like a snowdrop on the tongue. That was surprising, he admitted to himself. Of all the people in Rabanastre, he'd imagined Ashelia at least would warmly welcome him.

How wrong he was.

She made a 'come hither' gesture with her hand, using only her index finger.

Basch briefly inclined his head and made his way along the edge of the table. To his surprise, Ashelia didn't appear to be in the mood to wait. She met him half way.

"Your majesty, I-"

Ashelia slapped him. Hard.

"How dare you?" She asked indignant, though he couldn't fathom what she meant. She hit him again, her hand balled up into a fist. That hurt even more than the slap. "How dare you?"

Basch didn't dare say a word, move a muscle or even blink. Ashelia only pierced him with her icy gaze that gave away nothing but indignation. Her hand twitched then balled up again. She stalked away towards her chair. He obediently and silently watched her sit. He didn't say a word as she jumped up again moments later as though she'd sat on a knitting needle. She began to pace on the other side of the table.

"Why didn't you write to me?" The question was blunt and to the point.

"I would have, your Majesty, but the letter would've arrived after me. There seemed little point."

Ashelia stopped. The cold glare dropped momentarily, revealing an underlying layer of bemusement.

"What?"

The two stared at each other with confusion in their eyes, neither knowing what the other meant. Then the penny dropped with an almost audible clang. Her gaze burned twin holes through him.

"I care not about the delay!" she yelled. Her armoured suit of ice reassembled itself around her. "Three years," she held up three fingers for emphasis. "Three years Basch and not once did you write to me. …Not even once."

"I-"

"I don't want to hear it Basch. Let's just get this business out of the way and you can return to your Archadian masters like an obedient hound. Then you need not think of me again."

"You think so ill of me, your Majesty?" Now her words stung.

"Yes." She paused. He saw her expression change minutely as she stared at him. Her head shook. "…I don't know. I thought you would write but evidently I'm not the finest judge of character."

"I apologise, your Majesty," Basch said. He looked up to meet Ashelia's eyes. Once more, he heard her shoes scuff the carpet as she deflected his gaze.

"I have a name. Or have you forgotten these last three years? Perchance that is the reason you never wrote to me."

"Never, your- Ashelia." The name sounded rough on his tongue, as though he _had_ forgotten how to say it. Only on rare occasion had he ever called her by her birth name to her face without an honorific in front of it.

Ashelia rested her head in her hands, her rage apparently spent. Basch didn't say anything as the seconds ticked on. When she looked up again, she retook her seat. "I suppose that's a start at least. Sit down."

Basch played it safe and sat in the centremost chair of the three available. Together, as children, they played a waiting game. She made no comment about his choice of chair but then Ashelia didn't seem to be in a talkative mood. A wineglass found its way into her hand. Idly, her fingers deftly rotated the glass by the stem. Watching her, Basch knew the sour reunion was of his own making.

He racked his brain, wondering why he never sent word to her. Basch could remember putting pen to paper once or twice. He often thought of it. Without question he'd thought of her. Often were the times he'd ponder on her welfare when he had an idle moment.

It was the words. The words were ever difficult. What could he say? Dear Queen Ashelia, how are you? All is well in Archadia, etc, etc. Yours sincerely, Basch. Then when he thought on it, the words sounded hollow to his ears. Before pen met paper, the former had been thrown across the desk and the latter screwed up into a ball. He thought then that surely no letter at all was better than a superfluous one.

…Perhaps not.

"Ashelia, I truly am sorry."

She looked up. In the game between them, Basch had broken first. "I'm sure. But that's not enough."

"I understand."

She reclined, instantly looking more at ease. She massaged her right hand with her left. Only then did Basch notice her knuckles were bleeding.

"You're hurt, Ashelia." Again, he stated nothing beyond the superfluous.

"I gave as well as I got. How's your jaw?"

She'd never said a truer word. Not in three years as a Judge Magister of Archadia had anyone so much as laid a finger on him. The lack of pain had made him soft. Now it hurt all the more.

"It is fine," he lied.

"Good. For my part I am sorry I… overreacted."

"You needn't apologize. Might I ask if there is a reason beyond punching me for calling me here?"

Ashelia's lips twitched. Though the process would be a long one, Basch was sure that was the first step to healing the rift between them. She rubbed her knuckles a little more.

"As I said. We should discuss this trade agreement. However I find these things a little more palatable over dinner. Would you join me?"

Before Basch could answer, she made across the room to the door. An indistinct muttering met his ears, recognisable as Ashelia's only by tone. She returned to the table and drummed her fingers on the wood. Without realizing it, Basch lost himself in the persistent drumbeat as he stared at the hand and the person it belonged to. Whenever her eyes met his, Basch quickly dropped his gaze to the table. As such, he failed to note her stare back at him without her previous hostility.

After some few minutes of awkward silence, two servants entered and set down the food before them. A pang of worry stirred Basch when the servants spent a moment too long staring at him. To his relief, he saw no recognition in their eyes as they departed.

They dined on Dalmascan fare and discussed international politics but never did they speak on anything remotely personal. It was far too soon for that. When they disposed of their food, drained their wine glasses (or in her case, her glass of orange juice) dry and exhausted their talk, Ashelia stood again.

"That is all for tonight."

Basch took the hint. She dismissed him with the same authority she'd always had, instilled by a life in the royal family and reinforced as a leader of the Resistance. He too rose from the table. They bid each other good night and Basch took the helmet from the far end of the table. With reluctance, he reassumed the identity of Judge Magister Gabranth. For their exchange, as short as it was, he'd been Basch Fon Ronsenberg again. He made for the door.

"Basch?"

Ashe called just as he placed his hand on the handle. He turned and met her gaze.

"Don't be a stranger. Not again."

He nodded. "I give you my word."

Her lips twitched again but Basch could see it in her eyes. His word meant next to nothing to her. She wanted it to mean more but she couldn't believe him. Again, he knew that the blame lay at his door. After all, he'd given Ashelia his word before and all too often he broken it. This time would be different. At that moment, and at every waking moment thereafter, Basch swore he would die rather than let her down again.


	3. Errand Running

Chapter 3 – Errand Running

"Vaan! Vaan where are you?"

That didn't sound good, not good at all. Vaan recognised that tone from past experience. As a matter of course, he'd say this was bad. The nuances of her tone suggested Penelo was angry with him about something. Quickly, he ran through a mental list of things he might have done (or not done) to upset her. Nope, nothing there. He had a clear conscience… or at least he thought he did.

Still, he decided it would be best to stay where he was; pretend he couldn't hear her. Penelo's moods could take funny turns at funny times and it was best never to inquire too deeply. No, it would be safer to stay where he was, checking the skystone behind the helm controls. He wouldn't call it hiding, more like trying to avoid a potential argument, or at least postpone it until she cooled off a bit. If he didn't answer, she'd probably leave and look for him elsewhere.

"Vaan, I know you're in there." That put an end to that erstwhile thought. "You'd better get down here."

Well, the game was up so there was no sense in hiding. Still there was that temptation; the little, cowardly voice counselling avoidance of conflict with Penelo was getting vocal again. Vaan paid it no heed, though he wanted to, took one last look at the bright skystone (which was working as well as ever it had been) and crawled out from behind the controls. Looking around the cockpit, he felt a momentary haze cloud his mind. She hadn't come into the airship. So how did she know where he was?

Then the haze was displaced by bitter realization. Vaan looked over his shoulder with a sense of impending dread. The walls of the cockpit were primarily made of strong, clear fibreglass. Down below in the concrete hanger, Penelo was simply standing there looking up at him, arms akimbo. Her expression was inscrutable. Meekly, he tried waving to her. She didn't respond.

Well _that_ had been a lousy hiding place.

Vaan hung his head as he walked, as though on his way to the gallows. He patted his chair in parting as he went past, a hollow, answering sound the only words of farewell it gave. Stepping out of the cockpit, he found himself in the main body of his airship, the _Lusitania_. The gangway to the left had been left open, allowing natural light to paint a certain section of the silver interior yellow. The steel stairs descended neatly down to the floor. That was another dead cert of a clue leading to his whereabouts.

Penelo waited patiently for him at the foot of the stairs. Closer up, she didn't look quite so threatening. She was smaller than him and her big, kind eyes seemed to sparkle with life and happiness, as though she was incapable of harbouring a single dark thought inside her, as though she had not the will to be anything less than amicable. But Vaan knew how deceptive appearances could be.

Balthier had once said something about having a lot to learn before they started on thievery. That was when they first met Ashe underneath Rabanastre, before they became entangled in the eiderdown of Nethicite. Since then, he'd taken that lesson to heart, applying it first and always to Penelo. What he'd learned about her was simple: never take what you see with her at face value.

At that moment, she leant casually against the support rail of the steps. Penelo normally went a bit stiff when she was mad, often standing (for she could never sit when angry) with her spine as straight as though she'd been taught posture at a finishing school. Today she didn't. Instead, a wry grin stood out on her features. Now _that_ Vaan didn't quite know what to make of.

"Have you finished?" she asked.

A dangerous question. Now Vaan was sure of it. Penelo only asked such vague and general questions when he _hadn't_ done something.

"Uh yeah, sure have."

"Really? You've done everything I asked you to do?"

"Yeah…" Vaan replied, trying his best not to look uncertain.

"So you went to see the Cartographers Guild about our next port of call?"

"Yeah, of course," he responded truthfully. "The maps are onboard." Was that all, he wondered. No, it couldn't be. The room was still too cold.

"So you didn't forget to go and get our supplies for the journey?"

"No, I put them in your room in Lowtown, like you said."

That grin got just a little wider. Vaan understood the significance of the gesture a little better. That had been the warm up. Now she was getting ready to pounce. "So when you went into my room, you didn't… move anything?"

Oh crap, so that's what it was. He hadn't expected her to notice so soon. He himself had forgotten all about it.

"No," he said nonchalantly, trying to keep his face from giving anything away. Turning to go back in the airship, he prayed that she would think he was going to get back to work, rather than what he really intended to do. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, he'd hide what it was he'd taken. "Is that all?"

"Well yeah, I guess that's everything," Penelo said as she followed him up into the airship. "But you're sure, right? You didn't happen to see anything on my nightstand? Like a letter perhaps?"

Though the question was posed innocently, Vaan still caught what she didn't have to say. She didn't believe him, seeing through his attempts to lie, like always. Of course she was right not to believe him, considering he knew exactly what she meant. She was asking about the letter from Larsa, the self-same letter that was not so cunningly hidden right now in his pocket. Penelo jumped an extra step and was suddenly right behind him. "You're sure you haven't seen it?"

"Yeah." The close proximity made him uncomfortable. Standing that close, the heat of her body enveloped him like sunlight, making the _Lusitania_ go up a few degrees. Then he realized something was poking into his back… two familiar 'somethings' he discovered to his horror. His feet were rooted to the deck as if cemented there.

"Oh wait, there it is," she said and her hand quickly dived into his pocket. Freezing up, like a boy caught by his parents with racy lithographs in his possession, Vaan didn't even try to stop her or defend himself. He was in for it now. "Why look Vaan," she said in mock astonishment, the letter now in her hand. "It was in your pocket all along."

Vaan cringed. He was surprised he was still breathing.

"Why're you so interested in the letters Larsa sends me?"

If ever there was a wolfish question dressed up in sheep's clothing, it was that one. So innocently asked, any other person might've mistaken Penelo for demure. Vaan knew better. She wouldn't stop until she extracted every last little segment of the truth. His life wouldn't be worth living until he admitted everything.

"I… uh," Vaan closed his mouth as he struggled for a plausible answer that wouldn't get him killed. Simple curiosity wouldn't be good enough here. Drawing desperate blanks, he tried and tried and then, with a proverbial snap of the fingers, he had it. The answer came so suddenly and so clearly it was like it had been sent into his mind by Galtea herself. "I'm not interested. I was just, y'know, testing you. To see if you'd notice."

"Perhaps you should consider stealing something a little less conspicuous next time."

He couldn't quite believe it. Was she buying it? He hoped so. They remained standing in the main body of the ship, still as statues, but he didn't dare turn to meet her eye. If he did, she'd read the falsity in a heartbeat. "Well I'm a sky pirate. I don't do inconspicuous."

"I suppose not. Well at least you haven't read it or anything."

"Why would I read it?" He risked sneaking a glance. The letter was out of the envelope and her eyes were on it instead of him. While her attentions were diverted, Vaan turned and leant against the wall, assuming the most carefree position he knew.

Penelo shrugged her shoulders without looking up. "No reason. Just thought you might be a bit jealous, is all."

"What's there to be jealous of?"

Penelo glanced up. She clasped her hands behind her back as if to hide the correspondence and shifted her weight between her feet. "Well…"

"What?" He leaned forward.

"He's asked me to go and live with him."

"He's what!?" The shock was so great, it almost pitched Vaan over. He only just managed to keep his balance.

"Actually he wants me to marry him," she said with utter sincerity. "It's wonderful, isn't it? I've always wanted to be a queen!"

Without any dignity, Vaan spluttered as he tried to simultaneously get his head around the concept and an answer. But then Penelo's wry grin turned into a full fledged smile. She started laughing, pointing at him in mirth. Once again, Vaan felt rather foolish. She'd spun him a yarn and he'd fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

"Are you sure you're not jealous?" she asked. She punched him on the shoulder. "That'll teach you not to look into other people's mail."

"Right, sorry," he said, his face rapidly reddening from embarrassment. "Uh just to be sure, he hasn't proposed, has he?"

She shook her head. "No, not really. He told me a bit about what's going on and said we have to visit some time. Discreetly, of course."

Vaan conceded to the light hearted jab. "Yeah, sorry about that."

"It's fine," she met his eyes, "but don't do it again. Anyway, I'm not just here to get my letter back. I have a little errand for you."

Vaan sighed in relief. He was glad after that embarrassing debacle that things had gone so well. In a way, he was eager to take on the errand. It would probably get him back in Penelo's good books and take his mind off his own embarrassment. Still, he had appearances to keep up.

"What does Migelo want this time?" he said in the weariest tone he could muster.

"Actually it's for me," she answered. "I need you to go over to Amal's. My daggers needed sharpening. Since he's the best crafter in town, I left the job with him. He should be finished by now. So I just need you to go and pick them up. I'd go myself but I've got things to do."

"What things?" Vaan asked before he could stop himself. Damn his runaway mouth.

She shrugged. "Girl things. You wouldn't understand."

She got that right. These 'girl things' were veiled in shadow. To date, not once had Vaan come close to finding out what they were, even when he discreetly tailed her. But he caught the teasing note in her voice, urging him to ask. With whatever dignity he could find, Vaan didn't rise to the bait… this time. "Right. Anyway what's in it for me?"

Her smile took on a sly edge. "I'll let you read my letter. Or I might fully forgive you for stealing it in the first place."

"Alright, alright, I'll go." Better that than to let the teasing continue.

000000

"She's got you on a tight leash, hasn't she, Vaan?" Amal joked.

"No way. Just doing her favour, that's all." The half truth rang hollow in his ears. Amal didn't quite seem to believe him either.

"Right, right, very chivalrous of you. Anyway wait there a moment. I'll just go get these daggers for you."

Amal disappeared through the door behind the counter, leaving Vaan on his own to wait. It was late in the day; Amal's assistants had already gone home and there were only a few other customers in the shop. Two men were having a rather involved, quiet discussion with much waving of the arms by the sword rack. On the other side of the shop, a lone Viera stood with her back to everyone in the corner. It wasn't clear, at least not from where Vaan was standing, what she was looking at.

Vaan turned back to the counter. Amal was still in the backroom, the sounds of pieces of metal and wood clanking together coming through the open door. Every now and again, a mutter from Amal was thrown into the mix, always too quiet for individual words to be distinguished. Eventually, the Bangaa came back through, a bundle wrapped in cloth held in the crook of an arm.

"Here you are. Sharpened 'em myself," Amal said as he unwrapped the bundle.

Vaan almost took an involuntary step back. He had no idea Penelo owned so many daggers. There were at least eight piled together on the counter, most of them housed in leather sheathes. Amal plucked one randomly from the top of the pile. It had a wickedly sharp edge and the Bangaa proved so by stabbing the countertop with it. The counter was covered with little marks just like the one the dagger made.

"Well…" Vaan said, still surprised by the number of weapons, "I guess you've done a good job."

"Of course I have, boy. I'm the best weapon crafter this side of Ivalice!"

"Yeah, yeah." Vaan wrenched the dagger out of the tabletop and wrapped it up with the others. "Thanks."

"Anytime Vaan."

Out in the darkened East End, the streets were still busy. Rabanastrans went about rushing to the shops just before they closed or headed at ease towards the famous Sandsea or the never closing Muthru Bazaar. No-one was around who he recognised so Vaan set off for the hangar to drop of the daggers, then planning to return to their home in Lowtown, even if Penelo wouldn't be back for hours.

Keen to avoid the big crowds whilst holding a handful of knives, he set off down a side street, hardly needing to think about which route to choose. Vaan knew all these streets like the back of his hand. Barely anyone came down these alleys and, at that moment, they were devoid of hume life. The walls rose high on both sides and the ways between the buildings were narrow, making them unpopular thoroughfares. If he tried to stretch out his arms, Vaan couldn't touch both sides but it was a close run thing.

Then Vaan heard the sound of footsteps, cunningly echoing his own.

The footsteps came from somewhere in the alley behind him. He didn't turn. The person could just be innocently on their way elsewhere. Or they could do something rash. To be sure, he stopped and pretended to tie his shoelaces. The steps halted. That settled it then.

As he stood up again, Vaan hardly dared to breathe. Though the white noise of the main streets still buzzed in his ears, there was no-one around. It was a very good place for an ambush, no easy escape, no witnesses. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach and his muscles tensed. Time to see what the person behind him was about.

Vaan took a quick left and dodged down into a nearby doorway. Abandoning all pretence of stealth, the footsteps sped up. Only then was it clear that there were two sets of footsteps, not one. Bad odds to be sure. Gently, not daring to make a sound, he placed the knives on the floor and took one from its sheath. Then he waited. A deep breath calmed him, a nervous sweat broke out on his forehead. Carefully he looked around the doorway.

A tall woman stepped into the alley. It took him a moment to realise it was a Viera. Even in the half-light, the ears were unmistakable, her stature and her somewhat revealing costume synonymous with her race. Vaan dodged back and held the knife firmly. Had he made any enemies among the Viera? …Possibly. A lot of people looked down on his profession after all. Not to mention the fact that there were more and more Viera assassins and headhunters about these days; former wood warders putting their skills to practical use.

The other set of footsteps grew more prominent now. They were heavier than the Viera's. Where the Viera's heels had clicked on the stone, these pounded it into submission. The thuds were coming in Vaan's direction, accompanied by the clicks. Now or never.

Before Vaan could move, a hume appeared in the doorway, a short rifle held before him.

"Now is that anyway to greet a friend? Drop that thing before you take someone's eye out," said a highly cultured and highly familiar voice. The barrel of the gun dropped its aim before Vaan even had a chance to put the dagger down.

"You can't just say hello like normal people, can you?" Vaan said, at ease now he knew who his stalkers were.

"It's all part of the charm," Balthier answered, stashing the short-barrelled rifle away and leaning against the doorway, wearing the same easy smile as ever. "The ladies love the whole 'your money or your life' business. Makes them swoon every time. Who am I to deny them?"

"So you thought you were following a girl?" Vaan asked, not sure whether to be offended or not.

Before Balthier could answer, his partner in crime and all other things stepped into view. Just as beautiful as the last time he'd seen her at Bervenia, Fran was as easy on the eye in the dark as she was during the day. Her casual swagger set her instantly apart from the other Viera who made the city their home.

"Balthier is just teasing you," Fran said in the same sultry tones Vaan had always known.

"Now Fran, don't be like that. You'll be telling me you weren't at all aroused by the routine at our first meeting next," Balthier joked.

"You held her up when you first met," Vaan asked, bewildered by the bit of news. He'd never actually heard how their partnership came to be.

"Of course," Balthier said with all the enthusiasm of an actor playing his part. "It was love at first sight for young Fran as she stared down the barrel of my gun-"

"-Which I broke in twain," Fran interrupted.

"And we've been stuck with each other ever since," Balthier continued as though she hadn't said a word. "Fran here just won't admit that she's loved every minute of it."

"Uh right," Vaan muttered. "So how come you're in Rabanastre?"

"We've heard news," Fran answered, "which may interest the queen and Basch also."

"Basch is in town?" That surprised Vaan. He thought he would've heard of that somewhere on the underground grapevine but today the whispers had been silent. At least, they'd been silent on that little titbit of information.

"Fawning on our mutual royal friend no less," Balthier stepped in. "Not that we saw for ourselves. The palace guards have a ridiculous habit of barring entry to those without invitation at night, mores the pity. They must think honourable citizens such as darling Fran and I might raid the treasury or something." So that was why they were really in Rabanastre, thought Vaan. "So when we were turned away in a most abrasive fashion at the gates, we decided to find you, catch up on old times and whatnot. So where's your lovely pirating partner?"

"Penelo?" Vaan said. Well obviously, he thought to himself. How many other sky pirates did he have as partners? "I don't know. She said she was doing girl things."

Balthier got up from his comfortable position and put his arm around Vaan's shoulders in a companionable gesture. He led Vaan down the alley a way.

"Ah, the mystery of the feminine business. She's not told you what she does?" Vaan shook his head. "You and I have much in common. Still, what's life without a little mystery involved?"

"Uh right. So why were you looking for me?"

"Well like my darling partner said," Balthier paused to wink at her. Fran simply kept her own counsel, letting her partner do the talking, as usual. "We have some news to deliver to the palace that really can't wait for morning. And we want your help. Penelo's too would be welcome."

"How can I help?"

"Tell me Vaan, what sort of things have you been getting up to since you found your true vocation?"

Vaan paused to think it through. Of course he'd done many things since the Bervenia adventure. There was never a dull moment in the life of sky piracy. Most of their work had taken him to Archadia and Rozarria, the latter more than the former thanks to their friendship with Larsa. There they did all sorts of things. They'd robbed state cargo from naval convoys; they'd occasionally stolen valuable things from the homes of the wealthy. Bank robberies and treasure hunts had been common features of the job. There was even one occasion where they kidnapped the chief minister's daughter and held her for ransom. Since then, the Dalmascan twosome hadn't dared return to Rozarria.

It took a while to relay it all to the sky pirates, the sky gradually growing darker as the tale went on. Neither Balthier nor Fran interrupted, both seemingly content to listen. Once he finished detailing how they'd taken the ransom money and how the daughter had kissed him (a fabrication, she'd actually kicked him) on her release, Fran nodded and Balthier gave a short clap.

"I trust the lady's honour was safe with you," Balthier said in a disapproving fashion.

"Of course." Vaan was somewhat offended at the statement. "We're sky pirates, not rapists."

"The line between the two has ever been blurry," Fran added. "I'm sure Balthier meant nothing by it."

"No, I just wanted to hear how my apprentice has developed." That rankled Vaan a little. It had been years since he'd been Balthier's apprentice. "But apart from that last little jaunt, your curriculum vitae is somewhat dull, no?"

"Well – I… uh," Vaan closed his mouth. He didn't know how to answer that.

"In this tragic age, where our noble trade is frowned upon on by the high and mighty, gentlemen pirates such as you and especially I have a duty to uphold. To conduct elegant, extravagant and spectacular get ups. So I have a proposition for you."

"Yeah," Vaan said, all ears. "What is it?"

"How would you like to add breaking into a royal palace onto your CV? Proper breaking in mind. None of that sneaking around through the sewers business."

"You're gonna rob Ashe?"

"Not at all," Balthier said. "We have that urgent news to impart. And if we take a little token from the palace as payment, well I don't think she'll complain… much."

"I'll have to talk to Penelo."

"He's learned from you well, Balthier," Fran said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Indeed. Never agreeing to anything without your lady partner's say-so. It's never done me any harm. Then we shall go and look for the fair lady, if she can bear to be torn away from her mysterious business."

"She might be at the ship," Vaan said, suddenly eager to show off the _Lusitania_ to his former mentor. "We'll look there first. Come on."

Vaan ran off ahead down the alley, not noticing Balthier exchange a look with Fran, who shook her head as she picked up the daggers he left behind in his haste.

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The din made by the refineries during the night was normally quite tolerable. They knew from past raids, the hume workers had a curious habit of sleeping during the dark hours, so the machinery powered down then. But during the day it could be heard for miles around. Fortunately, daylight had long since departed

All the same, the Urutan-Yensa hated the noise. What was worse to them, once again interlopers saw fit to invade the territory that was rightfully theirs. The sight of man had been a rare one in recent years. Now it was all too common. For the first time in years, the various tribes had stopped their warring with the introduction of a commonly hated enemy.

On a small patch of solid sand not far from one of the refineries, three Urutan-Yensa waited. They had been sent there by the queen herself to put the fear of the Urutans into these humes. They were part of a larger group with other similarly small clusters hidden in strategic places, waiting to attack. Hume blood would be spilt. It was a duty they took seriously and they relished the chance to kill.

But the bloodlust of the three waiting Urutans was displaced for a moment by surprise. A dark, rather vague shape, too tall to be an Urutan, appeared on the sands. It came closer and they realized it was caped and cowled hume. Even better, the hume was walking in their general direction. They got excited and prepared. Two of them placed arrows on their bowstrings and balanced them on the rest, waiting for a closer shot. The other prepared his sword, just in case they should miss. He hoped they would. In that case, he could wet his blade.

Curiously, the hume's steps were confident and purposeful. It took them a few more moments of observation to realize that he wasn't just walking in their direction. He was actually walking _towards_ them. It didn't matter. Nothing had changed. All that mattered was that he was going to die at their hand.

The swordsman's companions took their stance, left side facing their target, feet evenly set apart. They straightened and pulled back the arrows until the strings touched their noses. They held them there and waited for him to come closer.

Suddenly the hume stopped and stared straight at them. Despite the darkness and the cowl, the swordsman could clearly make out the hume's eyes. What he saw filled him with dread. It was like looking into the abyss, so empty and never ending. He'd never seen a hume like that. It held its hands above its head, a gesture even the Urutan recognized as a peaceful one.

"I am a friend of the Urutan-Yensa," the man said in their own tongue. "Take me to your queen."

The swordsman looked to his fellow Urutans and saw them just as surprised as he was. Well no matter. He was hume. Without giving the hume a chance to say anything else, he gave the archers the signal. It would be better if the empty-eyed hume was dead, no matter what he had to say. They fired almost in unison. Their aim was perfect.

The arrows raced towards him one moment and the next they were engulfed in flames that sprang from nowhere. For a moment, they lit up the night and the swordsman could see the hume's face. He didn't look any different from the ones up in the refinery. The Urutans behind him recoiled as the arrows were consumed and turned to naught but ashes indistinguishable from the sands. A hume magician. Dangerous. Too dangerous for them.

The swordsman tried to turn but found he couldn't move. The magician. To either side, he could hear his compatriots struggling. It seemed they were all on the same Yensa.

The air shimmered clearly around the magicians head, even though it was dark, as they watched him. They watched in suspense and fear as out of nowhere three, bright see-through spearheads appeared. The Urutans couldn't recognise the material. It was ice, something they'd never seen before.

Two of the spearheads shot forward to either side of the swordsman. Almost immediately, the others started screaming and the cries of pain weren't cut off quickly. The immobilization of the swordsman lifted and he couldn't help but turn. They were being carved into pieces. Limbs and blood already littered the sand as their screaming went on and on. The magic might have gone, but he was still rooted to the spot, as slowly he watched his comrades die a painful death.

Minutes or perhaps hours later, the screaming stopped and all was still on the Ogir-Yensa Sandsea, save of course the refinery.

Suddenly he was cast in shadow. A hume shaped shadow. The moon provided enough light to see that other groups of Urutans were approaching silently. Despite his fear, the remaining Urutan turned and found the third spearhead spinning like a gyroscope not three inches from his eyes. The magician stood a few paces back.

"Take me to your queen or you shall suffer as they did."

The others sprang out of their hiding places and rushed the magician. With the spearhead so close, all the swordsman could do was watch. But before they even got close, the magician raised his head in their direction. There was a brief flash of light that scythed across the sands, straight through the others. They all stopped in bewilderment and died on their feet, their top halves rent asunder from their bottom by the magical light.

Now there was no choice in the matter. The magician looked at him and the Urutan could see it didn't concern him that he'd killed so many in so few minutes. One more death wouldn't matter to him. Though the Queen would certainly execute him for this, it was better than sharing the fate of his fellows.

He dropped his sword and led the way, all the while the magician following close and the spearhead even closer.

The din of the refineries went on undisturbed.


	4. The Woman in the Mirror

Chapter 4 – The Woman in the Mirror

_It was a familiar place, one she'd seen often.__ Bright lights and colours abounded from nowhere, painting the bizarre landscape all the colours of the rainbow and more. The surreal land was completely devoid of life, bar her, and welcomed her with birdsong. There were no birds to be seen, none in the trees, none in the sky but they sang on regardless. Captivated by the lush green of the sky, she saw there was no sun, no moon and no stars, just an endless expanse of green. She walked through fields of tall grass the colour of blood, no destination in mind, simply enjoying the light tickling sensation as the grass brushed her bare legs. She smiled._

_Here, she could gaze out over creation and be happy. With no-one to tell her what to do, no trappings of society to bind her, she was her own woman, free to do as she pleased._

_So she dreamed._

_A part of her knew it wasn't the real world. A quiet, dormant part of her knew that the wind she could feel on her face, the faint tang of cinnamon on the air, the springiness of the ground beneath her feet were all constructed. But she didn't care. She walked through endless fields, gently humming a tune half forgotten from her childhood and she knew peace. And that was more important than knowing whether the grass tickling her legs was real or not. _

"_Ashelia."_

_Some phantasmal voice crowed her name and she felt the world shake. No, it wasn't the world that shook. It was her. The sky began losing its warmth, the wind its taste and the ground its colour, all bleeding away into nothingness. She stood and watched them go. As though the landscape was a person, she waved at it in parting, tears prickling her eyes as the only expression of her fear that she would never see it again._

"_Ashelia."_

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She awoke to find her eyes quite dry. Her hands automatically wiped at her face, but the tear trails she'd expected to find weren't there. That surprised her a little. The dream had felt ever so real, like she'd really been there, like she'd actually experienced those emotions.

But it was only a dream, nothing to be distressed about. Tucking the thought away, Ashe sleepily wondered where she was. Then her ceiling greeted her with comfortable familiarity, reminding her in subtle overtures that she was in her bedroom. Shaking her head, as if to send the after effects of the dream away, Ashe groaned to herself. Noticing her sudden thirst, she turned on her side, reaching for the pitcher of water on the nightstand. Her fingers were just grasping the handle...

Then someone touched her shoulder.

She started in fright, the unexpected contact making her knock the jug to the floor. It shattered audibly as it hit the ground. As it did, Ashe quickly whipped her head around to see who the now retracted hand belonged to.

The fright quickly passed and she suddenly felt silly. Without any form of grace, she rolled onto her back, the sheets bunching up around her and enclosing her in a tight cocoon. Her eyes met with those of the person sharing her bed.

It was only Malis.

He was holding a glass of water, half empty. The rest of the contents were currently wetting him and the bedclothes.

"I thought you might be thirsty," he ventured.

Ashe untangled herself from the sheets and sat up against the headstand.

"Thank you." She plucked it from his hand and within one unladylike gulp the glass was empty. The water had been slightly warm but just what the doctor ordered. She made to refill the glass before remembering that she'd broken the pitcher.

Rolling the glass between her hands, she turned to meet Malis' eye, but he was looking at the ceiling with his gaze glazed over. She stared at her hands, particularly at the wedding band on her third left finger. "Why are you awake anyway?" she asked.

He twitched, as though the question pained him. "You were tossing and turning. Whatever it was you were dreaming it was either very good or very bad."

"Yes…" The glass continued to roll around in her palms as the conversation petered out into uncomfortable silence. They sat there like that for some time, saying nothing.

Unable to stand the quiet, Ashe switched on the light and got out of bed. Kneeling down, she quickly picked up the pieces of broken glass, dumping the smaller shards into the half-intact base of the jug. Once she'd got them all, Ashe placed the remains at the foot of the nightstand and walked over to the window, restless now. The dark clouds obscured the sky, shedding no natural light on the city below. Very few lights blazed through the darkness. Unlike Archades, most of Rabanastre (save the East End) slept at night.

She rested her hands on the curve of her stomach, feeling the familiar softness of her cotton nightgown against her palms and tried to think of nothing.

"Are you alright Ashelia?" Malis asked from the bed.

"Yes, I'm fine." He didn't ask again but he probably knew she was lying. She only ever used the phrase when she _wasn't_ fine. The last foggy remnants of sleep dispersed and she could think clearly. Now knowing she wouldn't get back to sleep easily, she analysed her memory of the day now passed. One event, the only event of note, hogged the spotlight.

Ashe had been in the middle of a meeting with the Small Council. The subject of discussion had been a death threat, aimed at her. The Landis Insurgency apparently considered her their enemy for fraternising with the Archadians. They vowed to make her pay unless she pledged her support for their cause. This was nothing new. Since her ascendancy, she'd received many threats of assassination, so often in fact that she brushed them off as mere nuisances now.

But in the middle of the Council's assessment of the issue, the doors had opened and her handmaiden Larina had stepped in. Walking over to Ashe's side, without any compunction or shame for not knocking first, she relayed a message. It had been brief, what she'd whispered into Ashe's ear, but it still turned her world upside down.

Larina told her that Judge Gabranth had arrived.

At the time she'd shrugged off the message and had prompted the Council to continue, not entertaining their subtle questioning about the disturbance. Then for the rest of the meeting, Ashe tried her hardest to pay attention, to drown out the voice of her own confused thoughts and feelings. In the end, she'd failed miserably. She pondered whether she should be happy or angry. She didn't know what she could possibly say to him in either instance. For one of the first times since her crowning, she just didn't know what to do. And she hated that.

The day had passed in a haze. The evening had passed with bleeding knuckles, a one-sided argument and dinner. Ashe had looked at him and she didn't know any longer what it was she saw. Was he still a friend? Was he still her protector of days gone by? Or was he nothing but a shade soon to be swept away and forgotten when he returned to Archadia?

She was confused and she hated that too.

To her surprise, Ashe felt her husbands arms wrap around her waist, his hands resting on hers. Her mind had been so far away she hadn't heard him move.

"Something bothers you, my love," Malis whispered into her ear. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Her heart made a weak stir. At least there was one person in Ivalice she understood, who didn't confound her, even if his behaviour was somewhat out of the ordinary.

"You're passing bold tonight," she told him truthfully. She couldn't quite remember the last time Malis had touched her intentionally.

"Does that bother you?"

"No… no, it doesn't."

She heard the proverbial cogs working in his mind, considering behaviour he, no doubt, considered strange. Ashe had never been one for idle reflection over idle matters. It seemed to her they were both reading from different scripts, improvising and acting out-of-character that night.

"You hesitate," he told her, surprisingly forcefully. "Tell me what bothers you."

"I…" she wondered how to put her confusion into words but came up wanting. It was simply too complex to explain. "It's naught. Just something…" her voice trailed off.

"Is it to do with the Judge Magister?"

Ashe stiffened in his arms. It didn't take long for her to realize Malis had only been stabbing in the dark, luckily finding a chink in her armour. Her own reaction had confirmed the touch.

"So it is," he continued. "I know you don't approve of my countrymen. After what happened to you and your nation, that is to be expected. But I'm sure this Magister desires naught but peace with you and Dalmasca. Were it not so, my cousin would not have sent him."

"It is not that which bothers me," she told him, pleased Malis hadn't scored a touch after all.

"Then tell me what does."

Should she tell him, she wondered. Knowing she could trust Malis with almost anything, having proved trustworthy (if little else) over the last two years of marriage, Ashe toyed with the idea. But this was different. It wasn't common knowledge that Basch Fon Ronsenberg was still alive. Only a few people in all Ivalice knew the truth. The last thing she wanted, confused or not, was to ruin Basch. And did she really what to wade into that murky territory?

No, she decided. It was better kept to herself.

"I will tell you…" she lied, breaking his hold on her hands, "…in the morning."

She turned, rose on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. His reaction was slow, only responding after a few seconds and then in a lacklustre fashion. It was over just as quickly and they broke apart once more, moving silently to their separate sides of the bed, as if what they had just done was shameful. Truthfully, Ashe didn't know what had possessed her to do as she did.

Not for many years had Ashe ever felt farther from sleep. As Malis got into bed behind her and promptly fell asleep, Ashe continued to stare at the far wall. She felt Malis' breath tickle her neck after a while, even and steady and she envied him. Listening to the steady rhythm, focusing on nothing else, her eyelids eventually began to drop.

She closed her eyes but thought of Basch.

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It was still dark when Ashe woke up again. She must've managed to doze off eventually, despite her thoughts, though her mind obviously didn't want to let her sleep at all that night. Closing her eyes again, she rolled over onto her side, hoping the more comfortable position would help lull her back into sleep.

Then she heard the telltale creak of a floorboard.

Her eyes snapped back open. She froze, suspicious. Waiting, she heard another creak not long after. If she guessed right, the sound came from near the door. There was a light accompanying sound, cotton rubbing against cotton, magnified by the quietness of the room.

Swish-swish, pause, swish-swish, pause.

Turning around in the bed, as expected, she found herself alone. The cast off sheets and the bed beneath them were still warm on her hand. What was her husband doing out of bed? Couldn't he sleep either?

"Malis?" she asked the darkness in a low whisper.

The room went very, very quiet. The swishing sound stopped. The silence was suddenly booming in her ears. With it came a sense of foreboding. Malis would've answered. That meant only one thing.

Someone was there who shouldn't be.

Turning around again, trying to pretend she was a restless sleeper, Ashe's hand inched towards the nightstand. The glass she'd used before met her touch. It would be a pathetic weapon, best for throwing, but it would do. Her hand moved past it, feeling for the switch of the lamp. She shielded her eyes with her free hand, keeping the lids firmly shut.

Then there was light.

Sitting up like lightning, Ashe's suspicions were confirmed. There were two people in her room, dressed in dark colours. Both covered their eyes, clearly blinded. Picking out the nearest one, she aimed and threw the glass at the person's head. By chance, he (for Ashe spotted that he was a he) took a step back and it missed by an inch, shattering against the wall behind him.

Now unarmed, Ashe sprang out of the bed towards the table. The closest intruder said something but she missed it, her pulse now beating loudly in her ears, smothering all other sound. Putting her back to the wall, she took a stone paperweight off the desk. It was comfortably cold in her hand. She raised it defensively…

Then the person furthest away lowered her hand, causing Ashe to lower hers. She knew that face. It was Penelo.

Words failed Ashe as she looked from her to Vaan (who she'd thrown the glass at) and back again. Her grip on the paperweight loosened and it fell to the floor with a dull thud. The younger girl put her hands behind her back and gave a weak smile.

"Surprise!"

Ashe tried to answer but found she physically couldn't. Her voice had chosen that moment to go on its holidays, leaving her mute without any notice. All she could do was stare at the two, wondering what on Ivalice was going on.

"Now before you get mad, I can explain," Penelo said in a low voice, as though if she didn't, Ashe would spontaneously combust.

She almost did. "Mad?" Ashe's voice returned in a low tone. "You break into my palace, invade the privacy of my bedroom without even a moment's notice and you expect me not to be mad?!" Ashe said, yelling the last four words.

Penelo suddenly gained a vested interest in her shoes. "Well, yeah. …It's nice to see you by the way."

"Pleasure's all mine," Ashe managed to choke out. For quite a few moments, Ashe didn't dare say anything, focusing solely on trying to calm herself. She reminded herself that she hadn't seen either of the budding sky pirates for over a year, that this was a happy occasion. Though this was hardly the sort of circumstance in which she'd imagined she'd meet them again, it was better than nothing. And they were sky pirates after all.

"How did you get past my guards?" Ashe asked, calmed by the train of thought.

"Oh they were sleeping," Penelo said, brightly.

"Well they are now anyway," added Vaan. Penelo only sighed in exasperation as Vaan had managed to give the game away. It amused Ashe slightly, despite the gravity of the admission. She wondered if Vaan had changed at all.

"They live, yes?"

Penelo nodded. For a time after that, no-one said anything. Instead they all just stared at each other, until Penelo nudged Vaan with her elbow and whispered something to him.

Vaan reddened but Ashe couldn't tell if it was due to the situation, or to what Penelo whispered, or her own intense staring or a combination of all three.

"So Ashe," he said, his eyes not meeting hers. "Um… have you put on weight – lost, have you lost weight?"

Looking down herself critically, Ashe turned around, pretending to be affronted at his statement. Instead, she looked at herself in the mirror above the table, smoothing down her nightdress and wondering if it was really so obvious. She thought she'd barely changed at all over the last three years, aside from her hair getting a little longer and her wardrobe becoming a little grander. Looking at herself though, she saw a queen looking back at her. Her new lifestyle seemed to be showing in more ways than one, good and bad. Behind her, she heard Penelo tell Vaan off in a series of frenzied whispers which said all that needed to be said.

She looked in the mirror again and saw the two sky pirates squabbling. It reminded her of bygone days. Vaan and Penelo didn't seem to have changed at all and it brought a smile to Ashe's face. She was glad that they hadn't changed and hoped they stayed that way forever, a memory incarnate of the old times. It was almost like being back on the road again, something she'd wished for more than once since her coronation.

Vaan, Penelo and Basch, all under her roof in one night, she thought. They were two thirds of the way to a reunion.

Then her thoughts went back to Basch and her smile disappeared. Though Ashe's link with the youngest members of their party hadn't been the strongest, they'd still write or come to visit occasionally.

…Unlike some.

She turned around to find Vaan and Penelo still communicating in hushed whispers.

"Do not mistake me for being displeased to see you," Ashe said, catching their attention. She gave a little smile to help put them at ease. "But why exactly are you here?"

Vaan answered with a bright grin of his own. "Balthier and Fran are in town and they said they had some news for you and Basch that couldn't wait. So we broke in to-"

"How did you break in?" Ashe interrupted, her curiosity peaked. The palace security was the finest in all Dalmasca.

"Don't interrupt, Ashe," Vaan said, smiling before he realized what he'd just said. Again, it amused Ashe rather than offended her. Many had been the times during their travels when Ashe had said the very same thing to him. It was oddly humorous to see the tables turned. Perhaps they had both changed after all.

"Go on," she encouraged, choosing her tone carefully. She listened to how the four of them had managed to slip over the north wall when no-one was looking, knock out one or two wall guards and then descend to the grounds in an epic, blow-by-blow account. Then they'd found a servant, currently unconscious, who knew the location of Ashe and Basch's respective rooms, so they split up. Then Vaan and Penelo knocked out her door guards and crept into the room.

"I see," Ashe said, taking it all in. "Are we all supposed to rendezvous somewhere?"

"Balthier said he'd be going to your reception room on the top floor," Penelo interjected.

Ashe blinked. "How does he know the layout of my palace?"

At that, both Vaan and Penelo shrugged. Ashe supposed this wasn't only the second time Balthier had been wandering around her palace.

"I guess we should get going," Vaan said, but not moving from his place by the door.

Penelo took his arm, "We should wait in the parlour."

"Why?"

"Well I don't think Ashe wants you to see her changing."

"Oh right," Vaan put his hand to his head, a gesture Ashe remembered he'd used when he'd embarrassed himself, much like the time he'd asked Fran how old she was. Swiftly, the two sky pirates left, Penelo turning around just long enough to wink at her.

The door closed behind them and Ashe looked at herself in the mirror again. On the looking glass, a different woman looked back at her. There was a certain glaze to her eyes, a certain way she stood, a certain way she looked that was different but not unfamiliar. It hailed back to her journeying of three years ago. Though she'd been dispossessed of all she held dear, that time had been a good one, one that she missed. Unfortunately with position come trappings.

But for this night, the Queen had retired, allowing the boundless woman to come free.

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It didn't take at all long to get ready but as she did, Ashe wondered where her husband had gone precisely. Sometimes, on nights where he couldn't sleep, he'd go walking somewhere. Usually though, it was only in circles around the bedroom. He wasn't in the parlour either. So where had he gotten too?

Paying the thought no further mind, Ashe chose a dress, combed her hair and wiped the worst of the sleep out of her eyes. Her make up and jewellery box went neglected. Her curiosity and impatience were stirred and she wanted to know what news they brought. Vaan and Penelo had offered no clues. Apparently, they were as in the dark as she was.

Jotting down a small note, telling Malis where she'd gone, Ashe gave herself one last look in the mirror. The woman there approved. Putting the scrap of paper on his pillow, she smoothed down her skirts and turned away towards the door.

Sure enough, the two sky pirates waited patiently, holding a little conversation of their own, breaking off the moment she entered. Ashe pretended not to notice and ushered them out the room. When they followed her out, they made a point of not noticing the two unconscious guards on the ground. Ashe stooped down and checked their pulses, just to be sure. They were both fine, simply knocked out by a sleep mote and wouldn't be roused for hours.

Leaving them where they were, Ashe led the two upstairs to the very same reception room where she'd dined with Basch not eight hours before. Without knocking, Ashe pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The others were already there. Fran stood by the window, glancing up only for a second to acknowledge them before turning back to the view again. However, Basch sat in the same chair he'd sat in earlier. His gaze fell on Ashe immediately and didn't waver. Silently, they had a staring match as she tried to sift through her previous confusion. He looked different without his armour, like the Basch she remembered from before. Unable to decide whether that was for better or worse, she looked away.

Vaan and Penelo walked on into the room and Ashe took the opportunity to scan the chamber. As they exchanged pleasantries with Basch, only then did she notice that together they only made five.

"Where is Balthier?" Ashe asked, moving towards the table.

"Why I'm right here," said a voice behind her, causing her to start. She turned to find the man himself several paces away. "Well, well, well I never would've guessed I'd made such an impression on you, princess." He took two steps forward. "We've been here but half an hour yet here you are already here at my beck and call, made up quite lovely if I do say so myself. And the first thing you ask is where I am. I'm touched to be sure."

"I am a queen," she retorted half-heartedly, uncomfortable with his proximity.

"Well that's really just semantics, isn't it? It clouds the bigger issue."

"Which is?"

"That you've longed to hear my voice again. That you think everyday without me in your life has been a constant torment, which I'm sure it has." He took another step, took Ashe's hand and gently kissed it. "I believe there's something deep down you want to ask me, isn't there princess?"

She smiled. "There is." His eyebrows perked up. Her eyes went down trailed down to his other hand and frowned. "Is that my vase? Off my dresser?"

He took back his hand and used it to raise the vase in question. "This little thing? Well, it _was_ yours…"

"But it's priceless," Ashe said, annoyed that he was once again stealing her property.

"I know a Rozarrian art dealer who would disagree quite strongly with you on that point, princess."

"Balthier," Basch raised his voice in warning, choosing that moment to stand up. "Return her Majesty's vase."

"Oh very well, very well if you're so insistent," he handed it to Ashe, "though I do expect some form of payment for my services."

Looking at the vase in her hands, she remembered that she'd never liked it anyway, the patterning ugly and archaic. She handed it back. "What is this news you bring?"

"Yeah we're curious about that too." That came from Vaan, gesturing to Penelo as he said it.

Ashe hadn't seen Balthier frown very often, but he did then, displeased it seemed with the question. "It's an unsavoury business, I fear. A thoroughly unpleasant affair. We bring the word of the street from Archadia, or to be more precise, from Archades."

That surprised her. Ashe looked to the other occupants of the room, gauging their reactions. Fran looked as though she was carved from stone such was her stillness beside the window. Vaan and Penelo each inched forward as though they'd get the news faster that way. It was Basch who interested her most. He left the table, his face clouded, and marched to stand before the sky pirate and at Ashe's side as a consequence.

"You were in Archades? Why?" he demanded

"To rob you blind, of course. Even an enigmatic character such as myself needs to eat on occasion. And who else shall keep my lovely partner decked charmingly in leather and steel?"

"What news do you bring?" Basch said, seemingly ignoring the sky pirate's answer.

Suddenly, as they were talking, Ashe began to feel a bout of nausea coming on.

'_Of all the inopportune times.'_

Clasping a hand to her mouth, fearing that she was about to vomit all over the carpet, Ashe went around the table and sat in the nearest chair. She took in a deep breath and the very worst receded. Unfortunately, she hadn't managed to do so inconspicuously. Everyone's eyes were on her.

"Ashelia, what's wrong?" Basch asked her.

Her stomach churned violently but with a grimace she shook her head, pretending she was fine. Taking in another deep breath, she fluttered her hand, not wanting to explain why she suddenly came across so ill.

"The meat was undercooked last night," she muttered, clasping her hand back to her mouth. "Pray continue," she said to Balthier.

He raised his brow but said nothing more. "Over to you Fran. I wash my hands of it."

Thankfully, all eyes turned away from Ashe to the Viera. However, the queen still noted from the corner of her eye, that Basch continued to glance at her with concern every few seconds. Fran turned away from the window, meeting the collective gaze levelly.

Fran took a few steps closer to the group. "We were in Archades not two nights past. Our business," here she paid a disapproving glance to Balthier, "isn't particularly significant. Simply put, we heard tell of a change of leadership in the city."

"A change?" Basch's voice was deadly impartial.

Balthier stepped in. "Your friend Zargabaath has taken complete control of the city and I daresay the empire as a whole. That's always the way with generals though, isn't it? Always the first to conquer."

"I don't get it," said Vaan and Penelo as one.

"Are you saying Lord Larsa had been overthrown?" Ashe asked for Basch, who no longer seemed able to speak.

"I fear not," Fran spoke up. "Lord Larsa has not just been deposed. The Empire mourns him. I am sorry. Lord Larsa is dead."

The room went still, Fran's words hanging heavily in the air.


	5. The Magister Superior's Request

Chapter 5 – The Magister Superior's Request

The lounge of the _Athena_ was as quiet as death. Barely any sound broke the tense silence, aside from the occasional quiet fit of sobbing from Penelo and the respectfully quiet hum of the glossair rings in the background. Wrapped as they were in their own little cocoons of grief or thought, there wasn't much room for conversation, least of all for idle banter. Indeed, such a thing was inconceivable to Basch as things were. The news had yet to sink in. It played and skirted on the edges of acceptance but he just wasn't able to truly believe it. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't.

But whether he chose to believe it or not, he knew it changed nothing. Either way Larsa Solidor, his lord and liege, was irrefutably dead. The thought reverberated around the inner confines of Basch's mind, never diminishing, never losing its clarity. He tried to hold on to the hope that the news was a fabrication, like it had been with Ashelia five years before, but the chances of that were slim at best.

Before making their move, they had decided to wait for the official confirmation and sure enough, the next day, a speed courier had entered Ashe's throne room to confirm what they already knew. The courier's message was defunct the moment Basch saw that he was dressed in the uniform of the elite Archadian air force. There could've been no other reason for him to be there.

The discussion of the Archadian-Dalmascan trade agreements (a token discussion neither he nor Ashelia had put much energy into) was forgotten instantly. Despite having a day in advance to prepare for the word of officialdom, Basch had barely been able to contain himself. In fact, it sounded even worse hearing it a second time than it had the first. This time, there was no way of deceiving himself that the information might be misinformed. He'd stiffly bowed to Ashelia and her closest councillors and left the room without a backward glance.

In the privacy of his guest chambers, Basch had slumped onto his bed and tried to make sense out of something that defied sense. So much emotion had welled up inside him: grief at the loss, anger at those who had committed such a crime, guilt for not being there to prevent it from happening in the first place. Eventually, Ashelia herself had come to him and told him that she would be going to Archadia for the funeral. He'd barely even noticed her come and go. His face had been resting in his hands to block out the light and when he finally had looked up, she was already long gone.

And so he had come to be travelling on the queen's private airship, rocketing across the Nabradian-Archadian border at hundreds of miles an hour to a scene Basch was terrified of finding.

Fate had dished out another spoonful of bitter poison for Basch to swallow. So much poison, so much failure. It seemed to eradiate anything around him, tainting everyone he touched. He was sardonically surprised the glossair rings of the airship hadn't malfunctioned yet and sent them all plummeting to their deaths.

But the gentle sound of the glossair rings still spinning continued to permeate the hull. They were still in the air, still headed to pay their last respects. Basch took a deep breath, then another. A thought occurred to him, one that had plagued him frequently since the news was first broken. Lord Larsa had died only when he had left the emperor's side for the first time in three years. That simply couldn't be a coincidence. It had to be an assassination, years in the planning, even if the couriers wouldn't say it. After all, Lord Larsa had been perfectly healthy when he'd left Archades.

Even though he'd been hundreds of miles away, even though there was nothing he could've done, Basch couldn't help but feel responsible for what had happened. He never should've left Archades in the first place. Why had he? How could he when he knew that there were men who would love to see Larsa's head on a silver platter? He couldn't lie to himself and say it was just because Larsa had told him to. He couldn't deceive himself and say that his desire to return to Rabanastre had been the only reason.

Yet at the same time, he couldn't be completely honest with himself either, because he didn't yet understand why.

The morbid thinking reminded Basch of the ghosts of the past. Young Lord Rasler, slain at Nalbina, who had died in his arms on the ride to Rabanastre. Old King Raminas, murdered by his brother while he was held down and forced to bare witness to his own supposed treachery. An arrow here, a knife there and they paid their price for putting their trust in him. A brutal slew of circumstance all centred round him had brought them to their doom long before their time. Now, a third ghost, far younger than the others, joined their ranks.

Then, of course, there was the fourth person he'd let down, even if he'd yet to see her to her grave.

Ashelia sat away to his left with a table before her spread with papers and with her handmaiden sitting silently at her side. She read, wrote and signed various pieces of paper, being so absorbed by her work that she didn't notice him staring at her.

Looking her over, he was surprised to find that she had reading glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose. He'd never known she required them. Her expression was inscrutable, but Basch recognised the same downward tilt to her mouth from days gone by. That she could work at such a time might've seemed cold hearted though the frown on her face said otherwise. Though she never seemed to care for or even really know Larsa, she, like everyone else, had grown to respect him. He knew that much but no more. These days, Ashelia was unreadable to him. But that was to be expected.

Ashelia's husband, who until then had been sitting quietly on his wife's other side, kissed her on the cheek and stood up. She didn't even acknowledge his gesture but Basch did with irritation. Since the start of the flight, Malis had seemed threatened by him for a reason he couldn't fathom. Every time Basch took a glance at Ashelia, her husband would be waiting with eyes cold and shielded. The kiss seemed like some bizarre sort of point scoring in a game which Basch refused to take part in. When their eyes met this time, the noble gave him a contemptuous smile, something which he steadfastly ignored. He'd never enjoyed being in the company of nobility yet Malis was without question one of the worst he'd ever met.

When the prince-consort left, Basch put him out of his mind. Instead, images of his last memories of Larsa would come sporadically to his mind. They were broken thoughts, much like a poorly recorded memstone, and the scenes would come in a jumbled order. Here was Larsa bidding him safe journey at the gates of Archades. Then here was Larsa informing him that he was to go to Rabanastre to conduct diplomatic business on his behalf. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to dispel the images.

When he opened them again, Basch looked up to the screen above the door leading into the cockpit. On this screen was a map of Ivalice with a marker in the shape of an airship to show where they were. At present, they were flying 10,000 feet above the Salikawood. The flight had already lasted some hours and they would soon touch down for a brief rest in the new aerodrome of Phon City to let the glossair rings cool down.

According to the screen, they were now less than twenty minutes from Phon City. To prove it, the _Athena_ jolted slightly, beginning its slow descent. Basch rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to fend away the sleepiness brought on by the lullaby of the engines. He hadn't slept since hearing the news over two days beforehand and now he was paying for it. All the same, despite his large yawn, his eyes remained steadfastly wide. As it was, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what his dreams would be like.

At that moment, he looked to his left again and found an inquisitive pair of blue eyes looking back at him, magnified slightly by her reading optics. Some of her papers had been thrown to the floor by the jolt; papers which were already being picked up by Ashelia's servant. Whether it had been his yawn that had attracted her attention, or the jolt that had broken it, the papers in Ashelia's hand now seemed to be forgotten.

She rested her cheek quite casually in the cup of her free hand, as if she was looking at some interesting creature in a glass tank. Just as Basch was about to follow the _Athena's_ progress on the screen again, Ashelia stood and ordered her handmaiden to take her papers to her cabin. The blonde girl bowed and her mistress stood, removing her reading glasses as she did so.

Thinking that she was going to return to her cabin to prepare for making port, Basch didn't expect her to sit in the vacant chair parallel to his own.

Like the night the news was imparted, Ashelia made no effort to hide her staring. She always had been brash, even as a young princess, a quality he respected in a woman of her social position. All the same, it didn't make him any more comfortable with the situation. Three nights ago, this woman had ranted and raved at him (not to mention hit him twice) yet now she was demure, docile even. It was impossible to know what to make of it.

She shook her head slightly, sending the curtain of hair behind her bobbing. Though it was a small gesture, all the same Basch understood the meaning behind it. He nodded in return, watching her fiddle with the pair of optics in her hands. Ashelia's handmaiden wandered away towards the cabins, her arms stacked with papers. When Basch met her gaze, the girl blushed and made a quick curtsey before dashing away.

This minute observation seemed to break their moment. Ashelia stood again, this time choosing not to meet his eyes. Basch stood also, the sensibilities of his former life not yet broken down enough for him to neglect paying Ashelia her proper due. He bowed as she passed.

She paused for a moment.

"My father didn't blame you. Rasler didn't blame you. Neither would he," she told him, back still turned before walking away, going down the same passage her servant had just disappeared.

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Even Ashelia had been ordered off her own ship while the crew took to its safety inspection. As such, Basch had also been forced to wait in the aerodrome until the inspection was finished. As they headed across the hangar, they didn't exchange words or even walk together, for they both knew that it would seem suspicious if they were too friendly with each other. At any rate, Basch was somewhat relieved. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say to her, if indeed there was anything he could say.

He followed behind her delegation, preferring to remain as anonymous as possible. From where he stood, most people would mistake him as a member of her honour guard and not look at him twice. That was fitting in its way because whether she liked it or not, and despite their long absence apart, Basch would always be her guardian. As they made their way across the tarmac, he fell into step with a Dalmascan soldier far more advanced in years than he was.

The man assumed a healthy interest in Basch. Too healthy, he thought, given how long the old soldier stared at him as they walked. Feeling a little self-conscious, what with his helm being under his arm, he couldn't help but wonder if the man recognised him.

Basch certainly recognized him, even if only by reputation. He was certainly Grand Admiral Rezinarm, commander of Dalmasca's air force and co-ordinator of Nalbina's air defences during the war. Basch had never met him in the flesh, as their occupations took them down different routes, but he was quite famous for his highly polished armour, stern demeanour and his mane of white hair. After a tense moment or two, the admiral grunted and increased his pace to meet that of the cortege, leaving Basch behind as they entered the main aerodrome. He watched them go, looking for a glimpse of Ashelia's greyish hair between her guards as they went. Though no matter how hard he tried, a suit of armour or two always blocked her from sight.

"Magister Gabranth, fancy meeting you here."

Basch looked up, realizing he'd been caught unawares. How he had missed the distinctive sound of moving armoured plates, he wasn't sure but he had all the same. Coming across the main lobby, fully armoured from head to toe, were two of his colleagues from the Ministry of Law.

"Magister Adril," Basch saluted first to the one who had spoken, "Magister Leris" he greeted the other.

Aside from their armour, both Leris and Adril were armed with their signature weapons, the former with his mace and short sword and the latter with his broadsword. Basch's eyes wandered past those casually, settling instead on the patterned visors of their helms. It was not just usual, but a required practice for all Magisters to be armed if they left the Imperial City. His brother's swords weighed heavily on his own waist.

"Pray tell, what brings you to Phon?" he asked.

Adril removed his helm, revealing a pale, young face. As director of the 7th Bureau, he was the youngest of the Judge Magisters. He smiled at Basch in a carefree fashion but it was obvious that it didn't stretch to his eyes.

"Magister Superior Zargabaath sent us." Basch only stared at him blankly, never having heard of the title before. "It's an old title," he explained, "back from the days before House Solidor took the reins of Archadia and until now has been defunct. But with House Solidor now extinguished, the thirteen members of the Magistracy present saw fit to reinstate the title."

"Thirteen?" Basch questioned, knowing that there were fifteen members of the Magistracy. "Who else was absent?"

"Magister Selenta. She's in Henne, inspecting the 3rd fleet. She left Archades the day before you did."

"I see," Basch said, somewhat amazed at how swiftly society could progress in Archadia. That old saying was a lie: 24 hours wasn't a long time in politics. In Archadia, it flew by at speeds impossible to keep up with. "Forgive me for asking but what is your reason for being here?"

Adril gave another vacant smile. "Zargabaath sent us. He heard from the aerodrome radio control that you'd be stopping here. He wants to see you now."

"Why?"

"It is not for us to question the orders of the Magister Superior," said the insidious voice of Leris from behind his visor, speaking up for the first time. Basch had never seen the man's face and he wasn't sure he ever wanted to. If his voice was a measure of how he looked, then Leris would be among the most evil looking creatures to roam the face of Ivalice. "He ordered and we obey."

Basch took his eyes away from Magister Leris. "Very well. I shall be accompanying Queen Ashelia to Archades. We shall arrive by sunrise tomorrow."

"Too slow," Leris interrupted. "You will follow us now."

"Indeed, you must," Adril added, trying to put a more positive slant on the conversation. "The _Eden _is ready to ferry us there now."

The _Eden_ was a ship Basch knew well. It was Larsa's personal airship or it had been at any rate. Sending it was a measure of just how serious Zargabaath was. And who was he to refuse his orders? "Very well. I shall bid farewell to her Majesty, Queen Ashelia."

"This is no time for such frivolity," Leris put in once again. "Time is of the essence and the Magister Superior's orders will be obeyed."

Though he didn't like the way that Leris talked to him, Basch nodded anyway, though with slight reluctance. As the other two Magisters led him to the hangar, he paid one last glance in the direction Ashelia had disappeared in.

As they passed through the massive doors of the hangar, the wall lamps turned on, revealing the _Eden_ in all her glory. Painted as it was in the Archadian colours of red and black, it looked more like a warship than a light transport. Every time Basch looked at it, it always made him think of battle and it sent a slight shiver down his spine. By its very decoration, it reminded him of spilt blood. It also reminded him of Larsa, those two things now inextricably intertwined in his thoughts.

Basch walked across the tarmac with the others and entered the ship. Even after more than a dozen flights aboard it, he couldn't help but admire the sleekness of the vessel. Aerodynamically designed as it was, its compact size meant that it was even faster than the _Strahl_. However, on either side of the cockpit, heavy machine guns served as an ominous warning to anyone who tried to interfere with their flight.

Settling into a seat, Basch was blessedly able to forget about Larsa, even if just for a while. This summons by Zargabaath was most curious, as was the slight pang of regret that he felt for not saying goodbye to Ashelia.

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"'Tis a shame that I should conduct your welcoming in the shadow of such a sombre occasion. I pray your journey went well."

"Aye. Well enough."

Though he knew what journey it was that Zargabaath referred to, Basch couldn't help but think of his journey across the city. In the space of only five days, the Archades that Basch had come to know had been consigned to dust. For the first time since he had first set eyes on the place, the streets were quiet and under Martial Law. The moment the news of Larsa's death had broken out, the first thing Zargabaath had done apparently was to crush disorder and anarchy before it could start. Those few civilians permitted on the streets were there for a purpose and didn't linger about their business.

When those few civilians had seen Basch and the other Magisters, some had found the courage to approach them. Few of their questions concerned Larsa. Most of them were more fearful of what was yet to come than of what had already happened. The liquidation of House Solidor could be potentially devastating to Archadia but they weren't particularly concerned with the liquidation itself.

Truthfully, he was as clueless as they were. House Solidor had ruled Archadia uninterrupted for over 200 years, since the removal of military governance. The Senate had once upon a time been established to prevent such a thing happening again. It would've been their right and privilege to anoint a new emperor. But the Senate had been abolished by Vayne. When he had succeeded to the throne, after all the deaths in his family caused by the nefarious old men, Larsa had simply refused to reinstate them.

If not for the Judge standing before Basch, it would already be civil war.

Zargabaath didn't look any different from the last time Basch saw him. His armour was as impeccably kept as ever, as was his short hair going white at the temples. However, for the first time in Basch's memory, the Magister looked tired. Likely, his swift rise to power and the fate of the nation commanded so much of his time and thought that they were what made him like this. His grief for their charge wouldn't be any the lesser for it either. They all probably looked the same in Magistracy, tired and despondent but Zargabaath had greater reason than most.

"I am to understand that Queen Ashelia and Prince-Consort Malis accompanied you as far as Phon City. I should wish to meet with both later when time and politics allow for it."

"Indeed," Basch said, thinking about their non-existent parting several hours beforehand. "Ashelia's cortege will be well provided for I trust."

Zargabaath nodded. "The best rooms in the palace shall be at their disposal and the finest servants in the Empire shall attend to them. But in the meantime, you and I have pressing business on which we must engage."

Basch's attentions were raised. On the _Eden_, Leris had refused to talk about the impending business and Adril didn't know anything, being too junior among the Magisters to be privy to that kind of information. As it was, the issue had kept him curious all through the journey to Zargabaath's austere office, with its tottering bookshelves and its pleasant scent of old paper.

"Pray tell."

Zargabaath cleared his throat. "'Tis no secret that Lord Larsa buried the Senate and died without issue. I hold sway only through force and already the great Houses of Archadia sharpen their cutlasses. Already they're making deals and securing allegiances, ready to restore a... ah, 'democracy'. They have the scent of blood in their nostrils and none will be satisfied until they reign supreme. As it is, I cannot and do not want to hold onto the power of an Emperor."

"Then what do you wish to do?" Basch asked, still unsure where the Magister Superior was going with this.

"Where there is no Senate, it falls to the Ministry of Law to decide. In the coming days, Gabranth, the fate of Archadia and indeed much of Ivalice shall be in my hands. It is too heavy a burden to carry alone."

Basch nodded in understanding. So this business was simpler than he'd been expecting. Zargabaath merely wished to have his aid in the crowning of a new emperor. "I understand and I shall be glad to aid you but…" He trailed off and schooled his voice as best he could, "…but first, I wish to see him."

Zargabaath stood, leaving the large desk he'd been sat behind and slowly pacing aimlessly behind it. His back was turned to Basch. "Yes I see. His late Excellency lies in his former bedchambers." He turned around again. "Do you wish me to accompany you?"

"Nay, Zargabaath. I would see Lord Larsa alone."

"So be it. I shall send for you again later. But know this Basch," here he leaned forward on the desk, his face set impassively. It wasn't often that Zargabaath used his real name. "I trust your voice above all others in the Ministry. Together, we must make the right decision. The future of Ivalice depends upon it."

Basch only nodded in answer. With a wave of his hand, the Magister Superior dismissed him and so he left the office. In the corridor outside, he could see the Royal Palace towering above all else in the distance through one of the many magnificent windows. With a heavy heart, Basch took the first step towards it, knowing he wouldn't like what he was going to find there.

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The body of the Queen of the Reljek-Yensa tribe hit the sand with a dull thud. Horrified, her underlings watched as she started to toss and turn in a violent seizure, her mouth spewing a chain of indecipherable nonsense. Her eyes seemed to bulge out of her head as she screamed. As though the Urutan entering her death throes was nothing but commonplace, the Hume magician stepped around the writhing body, his fingers idly tracing invisible lines on the air.

With nothing but disdain in his eyes, the magician looked down to his defeated foe. By chance, her hand grabbed at his leg, finding firm purchase on his ankle. Whether the action was a last show of defiance or a last plead for mercy, he didn't know. Neither did he care.

"Disgusting," he murmured, slipping into the familiar lexicon of Court Archadian. With nary more than a brief calling of power, he blasted the queen's body away, forcing her away as easily as if she'd been a rag doll. There was no trace left of the powerful and proud magic caster who had challenged him to an honourable, yet vicious duel. Instead, all that was left was a corpse.

The gathered Urutan-Yensa of the now vanquished queen took a collective step backwards. The already subjugated Urutans who now followed him both out of respect and fear did the same.

"By the laws of the Urutan-Yensa," he addressed the subjugated in their own language, "I claim leadership of your tribe. You lives now belong to me. Any who refuse to follow shall share a similar yet far more protracted fate as your vanquished Queen. Well? Who wishes to forfeit their life?"

None of the Urutans stepped forward. Just because he could, the magician sent the sands around him flying in a small whirlwind centred round him. The defeated, as best as they were able, knelt down and placed their foreheads on the sand. The magician had become familiar with the sign of submission over the last two days.

"Good. From now on, your tribe no longer exists. You are part of a greater tribe now and you shall fight to your last breath to advance it. Those who do not shall be made examples of."

The Urutans got back to their feet and shuffled backwards. With a word he sent them away, scuttling back to their Yensa's to spread the word to their nomad settlements. They would all return and demonstrate their collective obedience once more before the day was out. The magician watched them leave and wondered why no-one had ever before been able to conquer such a simple people.

The magician's second-in-command, the Queen of what had once been the Drieta-Yensa tribe sidled up to his side with a ceremonial sword and short spear in either hand. Thus far, she had been the only Queen wise enough to kneel without contest. Unlike the majority of the Urutans, she didn't let pride hinder her intelligence, a quality which the magician would've admired if he didn't hold all Urutan-Yensa in contempt. All the same, she was a useful and thus far loyal servant and had been his mouthpiece to the subjugated.

Queen Drieta bowed and knelt, laying the spear on the ground and offering him the sword with both hands raised in benediction. He took it with a gloved hand. It was as simple a weapon as one could expect from a nomad tribe, with a hilt of rusting undecorated iron and a blade made from the same low grade metal. However, it had a serrated edge, something only ceremonial swords were allowed to have in Urutan tradition.

In ordinary circumstances, the magician wouldn't have deigned to lower himself far enough to take part in an Urutan custom. However, this one he could make special exemption for, given its value for creating fear among both his allies and enemies.

Kneeling down besides the prone body of the Queen, the magician raised the sword to rest on her neck. Closing his eyes in distaste, he put force on the blade, feeling it saw through muscle, bone and tendon. With all the crudeness of a lumberjack of Landis, the magician continued hacking away until finally the head was parted from the body and the sands were painted red with blood. So was the white fabric of his gloves and tunic (it being too hot to wear black) he noticed. His forehead wrinkled with distaste.

Drieta came to his side, bearing the ceremonial spear. The magician watched as she muttered, condemning the body to dust in the traditional manner: banishing it with magic. Now, the defeated Queen would be doomed to walk the Underworld forever, incomplete and never knowing rest. Her pain would be eternal, as would be the jeers from the guardians of the dead. Even the Urutans, the magician mused, weren't completely barbaric, possessing just enough intelligence to have folklore and tradition.

All the same, they were still lesser beings, only fit to be used as kamikaze soldiers in the place of Humes. Drieta held the spear point to the sky, ready to perform her role in the final gruesome act of the ceremony. The magician picked up the head, ignoring the lifeless staring eyes and forced the head down on the spike. He did it with such force that the point of the spear broke through the top of her skull. Then that was it. The ceremony of desolation was over.

"Queenslayer," Drieta addressed him, using the honorific that the Urutans had labelled him with of late. "The Harek-Yensa tribal territory isn't far from here. The Queen is a personal enemy of mine. Might I take your place in the next duel?"

The magician considered her. Truth be told, he was tired of wasting his considerable magical talents on the likes of these beings. Besides, it couldn't hurt. "Very well. Her head is yours. Now put the standard with the rest and saddle my Yensa."

She bowed to him once more with both respect and fear and went to carry out his orders. As he considered the awful smell of blood and Urutan choking him like noxious gas, and the sand that found its way into his boots, he watched her placed the spear in the ground. To its left, an array of similar spears was already lined up, four in a row, each with a head resting on top, their faces contorted in different yet similar arrays of agony.

By tomorrow, at least one more head would be joining them.


	6. Voices in the Vestry

_Author Notes:_ I suppose I should have made this warning a while back but things are going to take a dark turn for the worst from here on in. So, yeah. Also, I no longer like the name of this story and will be renaming it 'A Play of Pawns' in a few days, just so everyone knows it's the same story. And that's all, and thanks again to all who have reviewed (You know who you are… or at least I hope you do).

Chapter 6 – Voices in the Vestry

It was well into the dead of night but Penelo decided to slip out of bed anyway. Turning on the light, she dressed in the clothes she'd thrown haphazardly on the chair earlier, leaving her nightdress in a puddle on the floor. For a time afterward, she simply sat on her bed and wondered if what she'd been thinking on for the last few hours was a good idea or not. But it was bothering her and she probably wouldn't be able to sleep until it was done.

So it was decided. Penelo opened the door leading into the corridor and pushed it closed gently, wincing slightly at the sound of the catch sliding into place. In the silence of the corridor, it seemed to echo down the passageways until she was sure everyone would wake, which was the last thing she wanted. They would dissuade her, she knew, from doing what she wanted, though that was really a relative term. There was only one desire she held in her heart and it could never be realised.

But she couldn't stop thinking about it. She couldn't eat without the food tasting like poison in her mouth. She couldn't rest without seeing Larsa on the periphery of her vision and knowing that one of the two pillars holding her up had collapsed into an abyssal sea of darkness. Like a Purvama, she floated somewhere above it, always waiting for the moment when she would inevitably topple and follow Larsa's course, balanced as she was now ever so precariously on just the one pillar.

She had to see him though she wasn't sure what seeing him would achieve, or indeed if it would even help at all. But it was better than lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the dawn. There was a slight problem, however, in that she didn't know where his body might be laid out.

But if there was one thing she'd learned about the great and the good in her time, it was the more influential they were, the higher they liked to live off the ground. And she remembered where the central staircase was which the servant had led them all up earlier.

Ensuring that her footsteps were as quiet as possible, Penelo tip-toed along the corridor in the direction of the staircase. Every few paces, she passed another door like her own and stopped to ensure no light seeped from beneath the doors. Vaan's door next to hers yielded no light, nor did Balthier and Fran's further on. No-one was awake but her, or no-one was up at the least. That was for the best. She found the staircase unseen. Holding the banister, she craned her neck to see the top. It was lost somewhere in the darkness and the staircase went on for as long as her eyes could see.

The distance didn't bother her. Actually, she was glad of it and hoped that the ascent might tire her enough to fall into a dreamless sleep later. So thinking, Penelo put her foot on the first step of the flight, keeping her eyes ever downcast on the stairs before her. Before she knew it, she'd arrived on the first landing and then the second. Her mind was so far away that she barely noticed the polished smoothness of the banister as her hand trailed along it, or the vivid red colour of the carpet and how deep her feet sank into it.

She wondered where Larsa had been killed. Though she'd plagued Balthier with incessant questions on their night in the palace and Ashe the day after when the official news came, Penelo didn't know a single thing about the way he'd died, what he'd said, what he'd done. She'd stared death in the face herself more than once but she couldn't imagine what it must've been like for him, all alone. Penelo liked to think he'd been brave. Larsa was always brave.

Heedlessly allowing fresh tears to spill from her eyes, Penelo kept going and never once made a sound. She didn't know she could feel so strongly for a person who had been no more to her than ink on a page for three years. Over time, she'd started to forget that there was a person behind the pen until she could barely even remember what he looked like. Of course, he'd probably changed since they'd parted ways on a warm evening in Rabanastre three years ago and he'd probably look a stranger to her when – _if_ she found him.

But the hand that had wielded the pen, and the mind behind it, hadn't changed at all, that much she knew. And it was that which she needed to say goodbye to, if nothing else. But she didn't want to say goodbye. She didn't want the letters that she'd come to cherish to stop arriving, for the doormat to be empty when she got home to Rabanastre. Those little sheets of paper written in an elegant script she'd come to not only enjoy, but expect, were no more now than snapshots of a time that she could never hope to retrieve, no matter how hard she tried.

Before she knew it, she was on the highest landing and there were no more stairs before her. There was only one passageway leading off the landing. It led on to a corridor which stretched on for over fifty metres with various doors dotting the walls and little corridors leading away to unseen destinations. At the far end, only one door, grander than all the rest, led off the wall parallel to the staircase. Instinctively, she knew that was the door behind which her respects had to be paid. She hesitated in the passageway.

After a minute of hovering around the entranceway, she heard the sounds of heavy footsteps and, a few moments later, of voices. Arguing voices.

"I do not understand why we still patrol these halls," said a woman's voice. "Leris, there is naught here!"

"Which shows you know naught. Lord Solidor left something in one of these corridors and we must find it before anyone else does."

They came out from one of the tributaries close by. The woman, wearing a full suit of Judge's armour like the man beside her, turned and met Penelo's eyes immediately. Penelo hadn't even thought to hide, not that she had the time or the inclination. "You! What business have you here?"

"I was looking for Larsa," she explained, wondering what she must like to them, with her clothes in disarray and her face covered in tear stains. "I'm a friend." She kept her eyes down and didn't look at them.

"If you wish to see him," the man said, "then wait until the funeral on the morrow."

The helmless woman sounded affronted. "Do not be without heart to those who have suffered a personal loss." For a moment she paused and Penelo could feel the female Judge's eyes on her. "His late Excellency lies in the chamber at the far end of the corridor. Tell the honour guard that Magister Belgerada gave you permit."

"Thank you," she answered listlessly. The Judges separated, the man heading down yet another of the corridors but the woman passed her by and headed down the stairs, not meeting her eyes. Not wanting to run into the male Magister again, Penelo made her way down the corridor hastily. As she got closer, it became clearer that the door stood slightly ajar. When she reached it, she hesitated and put her eye to the gap between door and wall.

She couldn't see much but it hit Penelo like a nauseating smell. There was just something so very wrong about this place. Something perverse. There was no doubt in her mind why that was. Suddenly it occurred to her that this was a very bad idea. She should go back to her room and pretend she'd never left, hide under her covers and ignore the coming storm. But what would Larsa think of her if she did that? When they met in the Underworld, she'd never be able to look him in the eye if she ran now.

The thought gave her strength, or at least resolve enough to push the door open fully. She stepped into the room, reluctantly making the first step towards the parting of their ways. Raising her eyes, Penelo took her first proper look at the room.

A bed took up the majority of the back wall, some twenty paces away yet even from here, underneath the covers, Penelo could just make out a shapeless form resting atop it. But it was the Judge standing at the side that caught her immediate attention. She felt a little apprehensive seeing him standing there but she didn't stop walking, though she did take quieter steps. The Judges always filled her with a sense of fear, for she had yet to forget how often she had almost met her end at their hands those few years ago, and since on sky pirating missions in Archadia. However, halfway across the nightingale floor, a floorboard creaked as she put her weight on it. The Judge swung about immediately, hand on sword hilt.

"Who goes th-" Penelo tensed then immediately calmed as a look of recognition crossed his features. It was only Basch.

Basch lowered his hand. "I'm sorry. I did not realize it was you."

Penelo only answered by closing the distance between them. At his side, she could tell that he felt the same unease being here as she did. As though drawn by a magnet, Penelo's eyes looked down to the bed.

The first thing she noticed was the stillness. He could've been sleeping. He'd grown since they last parted, and he'd physically changed only in small measure so he wasn't as unrecognisable as she feared he'd be. Looking at him was like having a phantom hand painting in the details of the murky memory picture in her mind. But now he'd never reach his full height. For gods sake he was only fifteen. How could someone do that to someone who hadn't flowered into an adult?

But the world was always cruellest to those who least deserved it, something she could personally attest to. Her parents, her siblings, all innocent and all forced to pay with their lives for something they had no control over. Now Larsa had joined their ranks and left her to struggle on, waiting for her turn.

Penelo exchanged a look with Basch. He gave her his silent approval.

Tentatively, she approached the bed just a little more. She half expected Larsa to stir any moment and say it was all a cruel practical joke just to get her attention. She reached out to touch him and expected him to frighten her by grabbing her wrist. She touched his cold, clammy face and expected him to repress a shiver and open his eyes.

Penelo was disappointed when he failed to do any of those things.

She traced her fingers along his face yet the touch barely registered on her fingertips. Inside she felt as dead as the body on the bed. There were no more tears to shed now. There was just a cold, hard, irrefutable fact and an acceptance of that fact. The jury was still out on whether this had been helpful or not. She brushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes.

"Do you think he's cold?" Her eyes never left Larsa's face as she asked. In her minds eye, she saw her brothers when she asked her parents the exact same question. It sounded as stupid now as it did then.

She heard Basch move beside her. "Nay. Where he is now, I'm sure he's warm and…" His voice trailed off.

_And full of life_, she silently added. In her heart, she hoped so.

"Would it… would it have been painful?"

"I've seen Lord Larsa's wound. From what I saw it was quick. He probably didn't feel a thing."

"That's good," she said in no more than a whisper, though she couldn't help but think that he was lying. She took her hand away.

She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. There was no need to look around to know Basch had given her something she'd never had from him before. In that moment she felt a bond with the Judge. They were bound by common loss.

They stood guard together over Larsa for countless hours. She couldn't bear to think of him as nothing now but a corpse, a shell of what he once was. There was regret sown among the grief. She wished she'd made the effort to see him again before… before this. Remind herself of the person behind the pen.

The candle on the table spluttered and died just as the sun began to shine through the windows. In the light of day, Larsa's skin glowed. He looked, for a moment, like he was alive again and the night had been naught but a bad dream. But still his eyes remained closed. Birdsong broke the prevailing silence. She wondered how out there the world could carry on as normal, how the birds could sing at a time like this.

"You should take your rest." For the first time in hours, Penelo took her eyes away from Larsa to glance at Basch. "The ceremony takes place in several hours. Lord Larsa wouldn't want you to be tired."

"Alright," she muttered, not wanting to go. "Are you coming?"

"Nay. I shall continue to stand watch over Lord Larsa."

"I'm sure he'll be in safe hands." As she left the hall she heard Basch mutter something to himself but couldn't discern the words.

She left the room once more and made her way back down the stairs, only just managing to find the correct landing when she was there. There was no-one in the corridor but just as she was about to enter her room, her eyes fell on Vaan's door as did her fist a moment later.

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As the only foreign dignitary who'd managed to arrive in time, aside from the Rozarrian and Bhujerban ambassadors, for one of the few times in her life Ashe felt self-conscious. The last time she'd felt like this was on her wedding night two years ago. Now in a room full of Archadian lords she felt as naked under their disdainful glares as she had been that night.

Most of them looked at her with barely concealed dislike when she entered the antechamber with her friends, if they bothered to look at her at all. It bothered her slightly, not because of what they might think of her but for what they might think of Dalmasca. Her alliance with Archadia was fragile enough as it was. It didn't help if the peoples on both sides of the border hated each other, no matter how amicable the second treaty signing at Nalbina (chosen by Ashe with irony in mind) had been.

Ashe was nigh on certain that they were talking about her. Whenever she came close to them, they broke off their conversations and moved elsewhere. After several different nobles had done this, she decided to ignore them as they ignored her. However she wouldn't stand in the corner like an unwanted guest at a party. She picked a spot towards the centre of the chamber to wait, determined she wouldn't be ignored.

Only a few soldiers were scattered about the room to keep order, all of whom armed with guns, something which Ashe thought unusual. None of the members of the Magistracy had arrived yet, but Penelo had told her that Basch had been acting as Larsa's honour guard all the night through. It was only admiration Ashe felt when she heard tell, simultaneously pleased and disappointed to see that he was as devoted to his station in Archadia as he had been once in Dalmasca. For a time, she'd harboured a hope that he would return to her service one day. It seemed she still held onto it 'til this very day, foolishly.

But now wasn't the time to muse on such matters. She smoothed down the creases in her mourning dress and looked around at her companions.

Larina, the only female member of the household Ashe had brought with her, looked completely out of place. The girl with blonde curls who took it upon herself to bring a smile to Ashe's face at least five times a day stood uneasily with her hands clasped in front of her. As for her husband, Ashe could just spy him through the crowd talking to a rather plain looking woman who she knew to be his sister. He'd told her before the ceremony that he'd sit with his sibling. From the animated way they talked and looked at each other, she could tell they had missed each other dearly.

Behind her, Balthier and Fran exchanged words quietly enough so that she couldn't quite discern the words. Balthier was well turned out for the funeral, dressed mostly in black though often fiddling with the lapels or the cuffs of his jacket. Fran however hadn't changed at all. She'd said the night before that she wasn't fond of Hume fashion and wouldn't be wearing a dress, a word she almost spat out with venom. Inevitably, Fran was a magnet for even more disapproving eyes that Ashe was.

To her side, Vaan and Penelo waited patiently. Both of them also fiddled with their clothes. The both of them looked discomforted but Ashe suspected that their nervous hands were due to the fact that the clothes provided for them were the most valuable they'd ever worn. Penelo fortunately seemed much calmer now but she wondered how much longer that might last for. The girl said nothing and Vaan stood like a silent sentinel beside her, as still and on guard as a knight at arms.

After some minutes of terse waiting, the door they'd all entered through opened once more. As though by magic, all sound made by the crowd ceased. Some began to back against the walls though there were too many people in the way to afford Ashe a clear view. However that soon changed and she soon saw why.

The acting ruler of Archadia, Magister Superior Zargabaath, fully armed and armoured solemnly entered the room at the head of the funereal procession. Behind him four pallbearers, all of them in the full regalia of the Magistracy, carried Lord Larsa's coffin through the antechamber. The size of the coffin struck Ashe like an arrow between the eyes. It was so much smaller than she'd been expecting. She'd forgotten he was still a child.

As if by some unseen force, the pair of doors behind them swung open revealing the main chamber of the cathedral. Zargabaath stood to the side and allowed the pallbearers to pass through. It took Ashe a moment to realize he was addressing her.

"My apologies for not meeting with you sooner, Lady Ashe," he said, bowing stiffly in his armour

"No apology is needed," Ashe told him, repeating his obeisance. Zargabaath was one of the few Archadians she respected enough to bow to. After all, he'd offered his life for Rabanastre once upon a time, an offer she'd never forget. "It is a sad day."

Zargabaath nodded. "All Archadia weeps. You and your entourage shall join me."

"I must protest."

Ashe turned around and quickly found the speaker. As she'd expected it was an Archadian, a middle aged man dressed in such finery that he looked like he was a king in his own right.

"On what grounds, Lord Farmalhaus?" Zargabaath asked.

"Why should this _woman_," he said the word with disdain, "be granted such a position of honour when she isn't even one of our countrymen. As one of his late Excellency's prospective successors-"

"You speak of yourself already as Archadia's anointed, my lord." Ashe looked up to find Basch had arrived. From his tone, he evidently wasn't pleased. "Lady Ashelia was a friend of his late Excellency and therefore a friend of the Empire. A friend of Archadia is a friend of mine. You would do well to watch your tongue if you do not wish to damage your chances of succession in the eyes of the Ministry."

To Ashe's delight, the lord flared like a mono-coloured peacock. His efforts at verbal retaliation were short lived the moment his eyes wandered to Basch's sword. Ingloriously, he bowed to the Judges and backed away, awarding her a harsh parting glare as he did. She was both pleased and somewhat irked simultaneously that Basch was still fighting her battles for her. But she simply nodded to him in gratitude, deciding that now was not the moment for anything more.

Zargabaath made his way to the main chamber, yet no-one else moved. Suddenly, Ashe noticed that all the lords were looking at her again. She wondered why they made no move.

As if he read her mind, Basch came beside her. "If you would care to enter, your Majesty."

He walked alongside her and they passed through the doors together. Ashe had thought the antechamber was a rather respectable size. In comparison to the main chamber of the cathedral, it appeared stunted. Sunshine spilled through the high windows, setting the vast hall aflame with light. Only the rafters seemed darkened in this place of light. From them hung a plethora of red banners, draping down towards the floor but hanging far beyond Ashe's reach. Similar banners of the Imperial insignia hung from the walls like tapestries, masking every little bit of bare wall save the windows. A truly red funeral.

Ashe quickly glanced behind her. Her friends followed closely behind, some looking around the hall, others with their eyes downcast uninterested. Behind them the other Archadians were filing in solemnly behind them. Ahead of her, Zargabaath stood at the front in the aisle facing them. The four pallbearers had moved away to the side, making their way to the entrance to stand guard. Expecting the new Gran Kiltias to conduct the funeral like Anastasis had Rasler's, Ashe was surprised to find a man in black robes stood in his place. It seemed the Kiltias had yet to forgive Archadia.

At the front of the hall, Basch left her side again. He made a show of bowing to her and as she passed and as he rose, his arm brushed hers. The contact was accidental but Ashe felt the goosebumps rising on the bare flesh. The armour plates were very cold. She inclined her head as she'd been taught by her various governesses and took her seat further down the row, towards the wall.

The others sat down with her, Penelo on one side and Larina on the other. Both looked rather distraught for different reasons. Not a word in her lexicon seemed to fit the look of utter devastation on Penelo's face. Larina however stared at the coffin blankly.

Ashe reached out and took Larina's hand. The hand was lifeless in hers but warm. Ashe watched her as, without lifting her eyes from the coffin, she squeezed her mistress' hand. It seemed a mistake on Ashe's part to bring her servant here. Indeed, it would've been better to have told her to wait at the palace. Larina's grip slackened not long after, the queen taking it as her cue to take her hand back. The handmaid was still unresponsive and she wondered if the young girl had ever had such an intimate audience with death before. Judging from this, probably not.

Ashe looked over to the other young woman by her side. Penelo had told her about her midnight visit to the upper floors, yes, but seeing the body to say goodbye didn't seem to have helped her all that much. At the very least Penelo's tears had dried, though Ashe didn't know if that was good or bad. She placed a hand on the girl's arm but she didn't even seem to notice.

"The service shall begin," said the man in black robes. Ashe spotted Basch and Zargabaath sit a few seats down. All was silent in the hall. "We are here today to pay our final respects to his late Excellency, Emperor Larsa Ferrinas Solidor. If you would all please stand to raise the songs of prayer to send our lord to the Mother of all."

Ashe knew the words to these prayers off by heart, having had to say them all too often in her young life, for her brothers, for her father, for Rasler and for Vossler. She supposed it was somewhat sad how intimately she knew the words but hopefully it would be a long time before she'd have to say them again.

The congregation sang the last words in one great and terrible note and there was silence in the cathedral again.

"Now, it is time for the reading of the eulogies. Magister Superior, if you would like to begin."

But Zargabaath never even managed to get out of his chair. Before he could step up to the altar where Larsa's body lay, the man in the robes collapsed silently onto the floor. It took a moment for Ashe to realize she'd just heard the sound of a gunshot.

Basch jumped to his feet. "Assassins in the rafters!" he yelled.

All hell broke…

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…loose. And that was just the way he liked it.

Almost at the same time as Basch, Balthier had seen the shadows settling among darker shadows among the rafters. From his seat a few rows back, he had a perfect point of vantage. As a professional, he didn't approve in the least. They'd been about as subtle as a Sleipnir in a china shop. Still whoever they were, they were at least adequate to get close enough to let off a shot.

Their biggest mistake: they hadn't reckoned on his presence.

As Basch had stood, Fran and he shared a look, an instinctual exchange that hadn't failed them yet. As the thunderous crack of the gunshot filled the hall, Balthier's hands had dived into the folds of his jacket.

"Just our kind of party, eh Fran? Good thing we came prepared for the surprise."

With that, two long barrelled pistols found their way into Balthier's hands from the folds of his jacket.

"What sort of guests would we be if we had not?" she replied, taking one of the guns and checking the revolving chamber just as the crowd got it in their heads to become a panicked mob.

"My sentiments exactly." The trigger-happy fools in the rafters had started to send poorly considered bullets into the crowd. As one, Balthier and Fran took aim and fired. Battle was joined. The world became hazy as he focused carefully on his targets.

All the same, just as he stopped to reload, his six shells spent, Balthier was just aware enough to notice Basch as he made…

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…his way over to Ashe's side. Basch paid no heed to the carnage around him. He didn't hear the relentless screams of a panicked crowd assaulting his ears. He didn't see the snipers fire and be fired at in turn. He didn't care if the bullets made their way in his direction. All that mattered was getting to Ashe and getting her away safely. There was no way he would allow this rabble to take away yet another person from him, to let his promises of protection be kicked into a ditch to rot.

The way seemed to stretch from there to eternity. The gap between them, though no more than ten metres across, seemed as wide as the Naldoan Sea. His armour seemed stiffer than usual, restricting his movement so that it was indeed like moving whilst submerged underwater. But neither hell nor high water could stop him.

One of the lords bumped into him on his way past but Basch didn't even stop in his stride. Soon enough he saw her chair, now empty and a woman in black crouched over something indeterminate. A few steps closer and he saw what, or rather who it was.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Ashe had been hit and hit badly. She was unconscious and red patches on her dress stood out starkly where the material had darkened to a deeper shade of black. Her hands too were a deep shade of scarlet, pressed over the wound. Despite her hold, blood was starting to puddle around her prone body.

Was he too late?

Her handmaiden knelt at her side, crying her eyes out and keeping herself curled up into a small target. But Basch only had eyes for his queen. He knelt before her on one knee, as if swearing an oath of fealty, with his gauntlets thrown to the sides. He cupped her face in his hands.

"Ashelia! By the gods speak to me! Ashelia!"

She didn't.

In the background he heard someone screaming for a surgeon. It was only then he realized…

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…Basch was the one screaming. But Vaan soon lost sight of him as he dragged Penelo away, his one and only concern being with her safety. She stumbled along behind him, having difficulty with her heeled shoes and the jostling of the crowd around them. Her grip suddenly tightened on him.

"Don't let me go, Vaan."

"I won't," he replied, but he wasn't sure if she heard him as the firing started to get louder. He thought there were more of them but he wasn't about to stop and check. They were close to the exit now and Vaan tried to forge a path through with all his strength.

But then two things happened at once. The doors to the antechamber, which until then had been closed, opened with a boom. It distracted him for a second, making his grip on Penelo a fraction weaker. At that same moment, someone barrelled into them from the side and he lost his hold on her.

"Penelo!" He turned around, trying to catch a glimpse of her but she was already disappearing into the crowd. He tried to forge his way back to her side but the wall of bodies overpowered him and pushed him towards the exit. Knowing it was vein to fight the current, Vaan followed the crowd, deciding that he would wait for her at the back while everyone else bottlenecked out the door.

Being pushed along as he was, it took him no time at all to get to the front. But the scene that greeted him didn't look good.

The Archadian soldiers who had been out in the doorway had turned their guns on the Judges who had borne the coffin. All four of the Magisters had their melee weapons out, staring them down. What was going on? Were the gunmen in league with the men in the rafters? Or perhaps it was the other way around. Either way, there were about a dozen of them, outnumbering the Magisters three to one. The crowd stopped moving. The gunshots behind them stopped firing. The screams stopped echoing off the ceiling. Then suddenly…

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…she heard gunfire up ahead.

The crowd which had for a moment been calm broke out into panic once again, trying to head back the way they'd just come. Accompanying the sound, Penelo heard steel striking steel up ahead. Like everyone else, she beat a hasty retreat.

Then she was pushed through an open spot and found herself amongst the pews. Blessing her good fortune, Penelo ducked down and hid from stray bullets as the blind trail of people kept moving on without a clue as to what was going on. She covered her ears and closed her eyes as someone was hit not five feet away from her, blood splattering both the pew and her. She tried to wipe the flecks of blood away but only made it worse.

"_Rock a-bye baby, on the treetop, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock,_" Penelo sang quietly to herself trying to block out the sounds of battle. "_When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall and down will come baby, cradle and all."_

As she sang the last three words, she realized that the hall had gone quiet again and that her voice had been the only sound in the room, besides the moaning of the injured. The fighting had stopped but the crowd stayed crouched down in their respective hiding places.

Hesitantly she got up, expecting a sniper to shoot her at any moment. But they didn't. Up ahead, three of the armoured Magisters walked about inspecting the loss of life with blood on their blades.

"Vaan?" she called, breaking the silence.

He didn't answer. The Magisters looked in her direction but she ignored them.

"Vaan?" she called much louder. Again no-one answered her.

Then there was nothing but a cacophony of desperate screams coming from her throat, all the time the call unchanging.

"Vaan? Vaan? VAAN!?"


	7. Room A12

_Author notes:_ As usual, I wish to thank everyone reading and reviewing this. But I think I need to make a point about the way this story (and indeed all my stories) will operate. When I write, I don't like the idea of giving a character a potion and suddenly they're better again. I find that somewhat dull. So, although healing magic will feature in places, it isn't the be-all and end-all of curative measures. I prefer to keep battle mechanics separate from the story.

Chapter 7 – Room A-12

They'd been notified of what had happened at Lord Larsa's funeral by one of the Magisters who'd been guarding it. All the same, only a minute beforehand, it had been just another day at the office for Surgeon Anyeta of the Royal Surgeons Guild of Archades. Until, that was, Judge Gabranth stormed through the front doors with an unconscious Queen Ashelia in his arms.

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It was just like five years ago, a terrifying mirror image. His eyes were only for her and the way ahead, as they had been then. It was a little like walking backwards through time, he supposed. The same thoughts replayed in his mind now as then; hoping she'd be alright, praying he could get her help in time, fearing that she could…

He hadn't been able to say it then either.

The only real difference between then and now was that Ashelia wasn't waiting for them in the hall, like last time. This time, there was no-one to shiver in horror at the sight this time (as her spouse was conspicuously absent). No-one to scream, no-one to blame him and try to push him away from the prone body. There was only silence this time apart from the occasional moan of pain to escape her lips.

The men and women in white coats stared at him blankly, stunned at his entrance, mouths agape. With purposeful strides, he all but ignored them, making for the door leading out of the atrium with only half an idea of what he'd do when he got there. One of the women intercepted him half-way and without a word of remonstrance led him through the door. They arrived in a long corridor, but Basch barely got a glimpse of it as the woman led him through the first door on the right, a brass plaque on the door stating: Room A-12.

There were other people in white coats already waiting within. Unlike the others in the atrium, at the sight of Basch they jumped to their feet immediately. He reluctantly let them take her gently out of his arms and place her just as delicately onto the operating table. They set to work immediately, one cutting her dress open at the midriff and the others making preparations.

"You're bleeding," said the woman who led him here, the only one still at his side.

For the first time in what seemed like ages, he took his eyes away from Ashelia and noticed the world around him. His breastplate was coated red. To his horror, he realized the blood wasn't his. But during his blind panic to save Ashelia, he had taken a bullet himself. His upper shield arm felt numb and he discovered it was not just her blood that coated his arm. It barely hurt at all though, not like the pain in his chest. The doctor tried to remove the rerebrace to treat him, but he waved her away, uncaring about his own infirmity.

Basch shook his head. "My wound is insignificant. Please help her."

Hesitantly, she moved away to Ashelia's side. No-one tried to remove him from the room. Instead, he stood forgotten, like an ornament seen so often that its owners no longer notice it. So Basch stood as silently and watched as the surgeons' yelled orders at each other, Ashelia's skin growing paler and paler all the while.

For one of the few times in his life, Basch clasped his hands together and lowered his head in benediction. He prayed for her and watched on, as helpless now as he had been on the night that Rasler died. He felt the wheels of history charting a familiar circular course and all he could do was watch it continue, unable to seize control. Only the gods, and the surgeons who seemed to have as much power as them, could save her now.

Basch watched them work tirelessly for what seemed to him like eons. Ashe's pained noises stopped after a time. For a horrifying moment, Basch thought she might be dead. However, her chest continued to rise and fall and the surgeons continued at their labours. He felt relief, far greater and blissful than he could've anticipated.

"I have it," said one of the surgeons after some time. In his hand, Basch saw a pair of tweezers. Clasped between its prongs was the bullet that had put her in this state, so small a thing, bloody and gleaming in the half light. "Hand me the Nebralim."

"She will recover?" Basch asked, hardly daring to believe it.

The head of the surgeons looked up at him in surprise, clearly having forgotten he was there. But the look of uncertainty on her face made the bottom drop out of Basch's stomach. "That would depend on her. But she's out of danger for now. She was lucky that it missed her spine. Now I must ask you to leave Judge Magister and attend to your own wounds. There's nothing you can do for her here."

Though he was tempted to defy the surgeon, he at least knew that Ashelia's life wasn't in immediate danger. For now, he could rest (but not easily) in that knowledge. He took the surgeon's advice. His wound had begun to throb once more, or perhaps it had been all this time and he hadn't noticed. Pressing his gauntleted hand hard against it, he went back into the atrium to find someone to help with it.

Outside, the shadows had hardly changed in length.

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The hall was quiet now, almost. The people who had made up the congregation had already fled, if they were able that was. All except for her, and she didn't care whether the room was empty or full of people. It didn't matter either way. It changed nothing.

She was crying again. Indeed, she'd been doing that a lot recently but this time she couldn't tell whether her tears were the manifestation of either anger or sadness. She gritted her teeth, her hands clenched into fists as she continued summoning healing magic. The only thing keeping her from screaming was biting her tongue.

Vaan was dying, and she didn't know what she could do to stop it. Desperately, she kept trying to use what she knew of healing magic, both knowing and not knowing that it would have no effect on such a major wound. It was a hopeless cause without the proper medical attention but Penelo kept on trying. There was absolutely no way that she was going to let Vaan go. If she had to kill herself to prevent it, then by Galtea she would do so.

She didn't know where he'd taken the bullet for sure, too distraught to notice, but he was still breathing. Thanks to her efforts and her efforts alone, his bleeding wasn't nearly as bad as it should've been, though it hadn't stopped completely. Penelo didn't like to think that if it hadn't been for her, he would already be dead. But her magic had always had limits. If help could be found, then perhaps someone with the right knowledge could save him. She just had to keep him alive but in her heart of hearts she knew it wasn't looking good.

Anxiously, she tried upping the power of her healing spells. Though before, the effort had been so minimal that she barely had to think about it, summoning on the reserves of her energy now was staggering; she reached through her own body to drain herself dry of power. She could feel every cell being tapped, and she willed it on. Balling up the power, she began to quickly release it, replenishing the energy used constantly. Her eyes never left Vaan's wound as more and more magical power left her every second. Penelo swiftly began to tire, but she didn't falter and she kept her eyes on his wound, barely registering that her tears were still flowing down her face.

The blood was stemming though she could barely see so. A molten white light, waxing brightly in her eyes, obscured her sight, so much so that she could barely see Vaan anymore. She didn't even consider the hindrance. Her full concentration was on saving Vaan's life and that alone. While still allowing the magic to flow, she tried to think of a way to extract the bullet, but she had no way of knowing where it was. Indeed, she could end up making things worse.

"You're not going to die on me," Penelo hissed through gritted teeth. "I. Won't. Let. You."

She felt more than heard someone move to stand behind her. Penelo didn't know who they were, didn't care. They weren't important.

They put a hand on her shoulder. "Penelo-"

That was as far as they got. On impulse, she shaped one of the curative rays of magic into an offensive one, loosing it blindly behind her. She heard a half familiar voice yelp in pain though she couldn't put a name to the voice. But that slight diversion broke her concentration. Looking down, she realized that she was the one emitting the light. Her hands and lower forearms glowed with a bright exuberance. For a split second, they captured her attention fully and swiftly the glow began to fade.

With horror, she realized that she'd stopped casting. Though she tried to continue, Penelo was too exhausted to attain the level of power that she'd just been using again. Still throwing out as much powerful curative magic as she could, she grew more and more conscious that there was little left to give. Slowly but surely, her magic weakened until she could only draw the barest trickle. It wasn't enough, and to her dismay she found that Vaan's wound was bleeding profusely once more.

The man (for she identified the voice as male) walked up to her again, though did so clearly with a pronounced limp. "We have to take him to the surgeons," Balthier told her. "There's nothing you or any of us can do for him."

Without looking at the sky pirate, she shuffled closer to Vaan, attempting to stifle the bleeding with her hands. Though a minute ago she would've accepted Balthier's idea as wisdom, now it terrified her. "No. You won't take him away from me. None of you will."

Balthier said something else but she couldn't catch it. Her eyes alternated only between Vaan's drawn face and the blood staining his chest and hands. She could feel his heart beating beneath them but the tempo seemed to be growing weaker and weaker.

"No, you _can't_ go." Once again, she tried drawing as much magic as she could. Though there was far less to work with, she summoned it all. Somewhere in the depths of her mind, she knew she would die if she continued like this.

But she also knew that it would be worth it.

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It was about an hour until any of the surgeons tending the minor wounds in the lobby were free to treat Basch. His doctor, the young woman who'd led him to the operating theatre, had introduced herself as Anyeta. Examining his wound with a cold sense of detachment, she kept her expression inscrutable. In her trade, Basch supposed she'd seen a lot worse. He knew he'd seen much worse in his.

After a time, she stated that the bullet hadn't even entered his arm and told him that he was lucky. She continued however to check the wound vigorously, poking his arm in different places, though why he wasn't sure. After some few minutes of this, she concluded the wound hadn't hit any veins or arteries and the damaged tissue would repair itself given time. In the meantime, it was to be a simple job of stitches.

When this was done, Basch's arm throbbed worse than ever. The surgeon hadn't been delicate and she had made no apology for it. The pain was insignificant though, in comparison to that of others, and at least he wasn't bleeding anymore. But he wasn't content to just sit around, waiting and wondering whether the news of Ashelia would be good or bad. Such thoughts drove him spare, as he always considered only the very worst case scenarios. He didn't want to dwell on them, yet at the same time he felt that not thinking about her was a deplorable act to be punished. The opportunity to take his mind off it appeared in the form of a surgeon, asking for assistance. The young doctor thanked him and told him that they needed someone to help hold down conscious patients, since all that they had for anaesthetic was alcohol.

An hour later, the bells of the cathedral tolled once more and the patient he was holding no longer needed to be held. Her bleeding had been too severe and she died with her wrists held tight to the table, her eyes now glassy and opaque. The surgeons dropped their instruments and for a moment inclined their heads in respect. Basch let go of the woman, leaving angry red marks on her wrists. She was young, far too young to die. Looking at her reminded him of Ashelia, not that he'd stopped thinking of her since leaving her side (something he regarded as an error in judgement).

"Find a porter to take Lady dan Foresen to the morgue," said one of the surgeons as Basch left the room.

Once in the corridor, his feet automatically traced a path to room A-12 as his mind was consumed with thoughts of Ashelia. He tried to still his beating heart as he walked along the corridor. Ever and always, horrifying images of Ashelia sprang into his mind, of her when he found her, of her when he left her, of her should she…

When he reached the door, one of the surgeons within answered, simply stating that they were busy and that he was disturbing the operation, before having the same door slammed in his face. It wasn't often that anyone in Archadia slammed a door in a Judge Magister's face, giving Basch cause to wonder what was going on. He grimaced in pain, tears automatically filling his eyes.

"Magister!" Swiftly blinking the tears away, Basch turned and found an irate looking Anyeta calling for him. "Your assistance, please. I have an unruly patient refusing treatment and causing a nuisance."

Basch paid a final glance and fleeting prayer to the door and made his way up the corridor. Before he even reached her, she had disappeared back through the doors. He hurried after her, trying to focus on nothing but the task at hand.

"For gods sake woman, stop your fussing! Leave me be!"

The unruly patient was already being attending by two other surgeons, a man and a woman. They blocked the patient from view but Basch knew the voice well enough, as if the tall Viera standing by his side wasn't a big enough clue. It would be _him_ causing a nuisance.

"Balthier?"

The sky pirate stopped struggling and the two surgeons let go and stepped aside. For once, Balthier didn't look immaculate. His shirt was tattered, his jacket balled up and neglected on the floor. His left thigh was bleeding quite heavily. Fran looked up at Basch for a moment, then back at her partner in confusion, probably wondering, like Basch was, why he was refusing to let the surgeons touch him.

"Finally, an island of sanity in this ocean of madness," he threw his arms into the air. "These damn people won't leave me alone. Seem to think I'm the insane one, I tell you."

"You are wounded however," Fran said in her usually calm tone, pointing at the source of the blood.

"I've had worse!" he barked, his usual calm demeanour seemingly abandoned. "So have others…"

Basch heard a slight crack in the sky pirate's voice and both he and Balthier knew it. Fran nodded then averted her eyes, looking down to the floor. Basch felt an uncomfortable stir in his heart. Something had happened. Something bad, something terrible.

"What has happened?" Basch asked. Fran didn't look up. Balthier opened his mouth but closed it again. "Tell me, what has happened?"

"Vaan…" Balthier muttered. "Vaan is…"

Basch didn't need him to finish and didn't want him to.

"Dead?" Basch asked, unable to stop himself.

Fran shook her head and Basch felt a momentary relief. "They say his condition is serious. They say even if he survives the day, the night will claim him."

Basch bowed his head. "Who found him?"

"Penelo," Fran replied, with an edge to her voice. "She found him in the cathedral and went into hysterics. It is only through her efforts that Vaan was able to be moved here."

"And how is she?"

Fran shook her head. "I know not. She fainted and has not arisen since our arrival. Such power she wielded," the Viera continued, her voice wistful. "Never have I seen anything like it in a Hume before."

"Had she been aiming that magic of hers," Balthier cut in, "I doubt I would have a leg to stand on. Damn girl near emasculated me."

"Where are they?"

"We don't know. We were trying to get in to see them," Balthier snapped. "But then these people started insisting I have something wrong with me."

Anyeta, who had up until then not said a word, protested. "We must tend to the wound. If not, it will become infected and then you will only have one leg to stand on."

"How many times must I tell you that I'm fine?"

"Prove yourself then."

The hatred in Balthier's eyes was unlike anything Basch had ever seen in the sky pirate before. Any pretence of gentlemanly conduct was by now gone, replaced by sheer distaste aimed at the female doctor. But now, as ever, there was no challenge that Balthier wouldn't rise to. Leaning heavily on the arm of the chair, he managed to get to his feet, his expression incredibly wooden in appearance.

"Doctor, perhaps you could treat him later," Basch compromised.

Anyeta placed her arms akimbo, "Fine. We have not the time to waste. If you wish to look for your friend, I heard a sedated blonde girl was taken to room B-67. As for the boy, I do not know. He'll be somewhere in A Wing."

"My thanks," Basch replied, but Anyeta was already walking away, moving on to the next patient.

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Even in her sleep, the poor girl looked as though she was in eternal torment. She shifted about often, her eyes worked furiously under her eyelids and every now and again she whimpered.

The three of them (Fran offering her shoulder for Balthier to lean on) stood to the side of the bed as still as statues. Everything seemed to be put into perspective just looking at her. With Larsa dead and Vaan dying (though they didn't know that for certain for they hadn't been allowed to see him), Galtea alone knew how she would feel when she awoke, or rather to what extent she felt it. But Basch felt he had some common ground with her. He was standing on the edge of the very same periphery that Penelo herself was in danger of falling off.

In less than a week, Archades had become a battlefield, and this was the result. Though he'd had many years experience (too many) of battle and death, the situation was different now and it concerned him. He didn't know who his enemy was, where they were, what they wanted. They could strike as fast as cobras in the Westersand and there was little he could do about it. All he could do was pick up the pieces afterward and hope for the best.

But whoever they were they'd made an enemy today. Basch would work every hour Galtea sent to make sure they'd live to regret their actions.

Penelo stirred again but the drugs in her system still held sway over her body and so she remained in a fitful sleep. In a parody of Penelo's action the night before, Basch reached out and brushed a lock of hair out of the girl's eyes. She didn't react, but at least her skin wasn't cold as ice. Looking at her, he thought of Larsa, and Ashelia, once more. He'd made the connection long before. There was no way those behind today's atrocity could be different to those behind Lord Larsa's assassination. There being two attacks in less than a week on the capital was unprecedented. It had to be the same people.

But who were they?

Before he could think on it further, the door was pushed open so violently it shook in its frame. And through it marched a distraught Malis.

"Where is my wife?!" he yelled, his eyes focused on Basch. Without any sense of compunction, he crossed the room and tried to grab Basch by his breastplate, but his hands failed to find purchase. "Tell me where she is! They said you brought her here."

"That's a good point actually," Balthier added. "Where is our erstwhile princess?"

Malis rounded on him. "And who the hell might you be?"

Basch stepped in before the crossed words could turn into an argument. That was the last thing any of them needed right now.

"Lord dan Foresen, your wife is in surgery."

The anger on Malis' face collapsed like a sandcastle at high tide. "No, gods no. How… how is she?"

"I know not," Basch admitted. "But they say she fights."

"Please… take me to her."

But as he looked closer at the prince-consort, he realized he'd seen his features before somewhere else. It suddenly clicked. He saw the same small nose, the same smooth skin and the same shade of blonde hair that the woman in surgery had had. Then he remembered what the doctor's had said:

"_Find a porter to take Lady dan Foresen to the morgue."_

"Judge Magister, take me to her now!"

"Certainly."

Basch didn't say a word about the body in the morgue, the body of his sister.

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"Judge Magister, we're still operating," said the surgeon, the door before him like a shield. It had taken five minutes of incessant knocking and threats of taking the door down for them to be seen at all.

"Did you not say that the bullet had been removed over an hour ago?" Basch demanded. He wouldn't be fobbed off with excuses this time.

"It was, yes, but…" Before he could finish, Malis pushed past both Basch and the door and forced his way into the room. The surgeon angrily demanded that they leave but Basch simply followed the prince-consort through.

What he saw made his blood turn to ice.

Ashe was no longer pale, but her skin burned a vibrant shade of red. She tossed and turned on the table and it was all the surgeons could do to stop her throwing herself off. Her sweat slicked hair clung to her face. Her breathing was erratic. Worst of all, the white cotton nightdress they had changed her into was red. But the bleeding wasn't coming from where she'd been shot…

Basch saw that Malis too was frozen in horror at the sight. The surgeon by the door closed it again.

"We don't know what's wrong with her," the surgeon admitted. "As we tried to move her, she broke into a fever. Then, but a few minutes ago, she started bleeding again. But this time she was haemorrhaging from her…" the surgeon pointed between Ashe's legs. "The bleeding hasn't stopped since then and we're trying to ascertain why she's bleeding at all."

"Oh my god," Malis whispered under his breath. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."

"Lord Malis?" Basch asked.

The prince-consort looked at him and the fear was gone. It was replaced by sheer terror.

"She's losing the baby. Oh dear Galtea, she's losing our baby!"

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The wind howled outside and tried to work its way into the tent but he didn't particularly care. The coolness was actually quite pleasant after the intense heat of the Sandsea. However, the Magician kept his focus on the device resting on the floor before him. It was a magicite-powered lodestone, a device which allowed him to communicate across continents with only minimal magical effort. Despite the lack of a need to concentrate (for it was well within his skill to use effortlessly), he kept his gaze locked on the small, spherical device anyway. A report was due, past time in fact.

The orange depths of the device turned clear after a time, notifying the Magician that the person operating the partner device was attempting to make the connection. Drawing a weak strand of magic, he sent it through the lodestone, completing the connection. With that, an image of the person on the other end hovered over the device, only a few inches tall but rendered clearly.

"Magister Leris, your report is overdue. Explain your tardiness," the Magician said harshly. He didn't appreciate timewasters.

The Archadian bowed. "Forgive me, master. Unforeseeable delays prevented me from making communication. A clean-up was required and I trusted no-one else to make it."

The Magician scowled but said nothing. Leris was efficient and effective, and had been so through the entirety of the operation thus far. "What news of the north?"

"The infiltration was made successfully by our men. Most are dead but did significant damage. I shall see that those who were captured are executed before they can give away any dangerous information. However, I regret to inform you that the primary target, Lord Farmalhaus, has survived."

"No matter," the Magician said. "Contingencies are in place. Lord Larsa's assassin left you a document in your office after the deed. You should find it quite useful in the coming days."

"My lord, if I might ask, what has become of the assassin. I saw him out of the city as you asked but I have had no word since."

"That is not your concern," the Magician answered. It would be too dangerous to give that kind of information away to Leris. There was only so much he would allow his subordinates to know. "What else?"

"Also, there has been another, ah…" Leris' image flickered for a moment, "complication."

"Complication?" the Magician asked, his tone dangerous. He didn't mention the flicker though he knew it hadn't happened by chance. Leris was scared of something. "What manner of complication?"

Leris' image flickered again. "Queen Ashelia was shot during the assassination attempt."

"She what?" he yelled, suddenly jumping to his feet in anger. "She has been killed?"

"No, my lord," Leris said quickly, his nervousness clear even over the lodestone. "She lives though her wound is grievous. From what I can ascertain, she has suffered an abdominal wound, which of course will have a knock on effect on her pregnancy. However, Queen Ashelia is strong in the face of such infirmities. She was one of the few people who contracted the Dalmascan plague of 701 to live to tell the tale. She will survive."

"And the child?"

"Will most likely die."

The Magician smiled. "Good. If she survives, this will be helpful. All the same, you ought to raise your prayers to Galtea."

Leris didn't answer but then he wasn't supposed to. Another thing the Magician liked about the Magister was that he knew when not to speak.

"On to other matters," the Magician said, not seeing the need to berate Leris further for something that couldn't be changed. "How fare the other components of the next stage?"

Leris shook his head. "The Faevorl Facility is fully operational and the Weapon is almost ready for use. However, I fear that there may be opposition preventing its deployment, most notably from among the Magistracy. Magisters Adril and Gabranth, in particular, could be problematic. However, any other form of opposition can be contained and destroyed easily enough."

"If anyone in the Magistracy should get in your way," and the Magician raised his hand, clenching it into a fist as though crushing something invisible between his fingers, "eliminate them."

Leris bowed. "It would be my pleasure."


	8. Dig Two Graves

_Author notes:_ Again, I reiterate my thanks to everyone who's read on this far, but I can't help but think the last chapter wasn't well received. I have my misgivings about this chapter too and I have to warn you that some pretty darkish stuff happens, not to give anything away. And that's it. If there are any problems with this (as I'm sure they are) don't hesitate to tell me.

Chapter 8 – Dig Two Graves

"Lady Ashe is with child?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Basch spotted the surgeons glance up at his shocked outburst. They seemed just as surprised as he was. He hadn't even stopped to consider that she could be pregnant when he carried her there. She didn't look it.

"Almost three months," Malis muttered, as if in answer to Basch's unspoken observation.

"Three months…" Basch echoed hollowly.

The prince-consort made to move to his wife's side, his distress as clear as the morning sunlight but Basch instinctively held him back, though it took him a moment to realize he was doing it. The young man struggled in his arms, trying to break free, trying to be at the side of the woman he clearly loved. Basch admired that but held him back all the same.

No, my lord," Basch grunted, struggling with the effort of keeping the man in his grasp. For one so small, he was surprisingly strong and resilient. "Now is not the time. She needs the surgeons now. Your time to comfort her, for comfort she will need, will come later. Be strong for her."

Malis struggles became weaker and weaker until he did was shake weakly in Basch's grasp. He started to sob and didn't try to hide it; the Judge let him go. "Nary did I realize until now how much Ashelia means to me," he said, interrupted by sobs. "I couldn't bare it if she lost the baby or her own life. And it is been so long since I told her…"

"Told her what, my lord?" Basch asked softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. He winced slightly, accidentally having raised his wounded arm rather than his good one.

"Naught for a Magister of Archadia to concern himself with," he answered with a greater level of control over his voice. "If you do not mind Magister, I should like to watch over my wife alone. Would you allow us some privacy?"

"No, my lord, I will not." Malis looked at him, some of that previous disdain he had held for Basch clearly returned, but he would not wither. "You are not the only one who feels anything for Ashelia."

At the operating table, the surgeons had taken to saving Ashe with renewed vigour, oblivious to the contest of wills going on between the two men. They held each others eyes, each unwilling to back down. But they were brought back to earth abruptly; Ashelia moaned in pain once again. Basch immediately dropped the gaze, chiding himself for having momentarily forgotten why he was here. But he could only stand by numbly, his eyes never leaving Ashelia's face. It pained him so to see her like this. The gods had but to name any price and he would've willing changed places with her, and done so proudly and gladly. She was his only concern.

Her and her child…

He still couldn't quite believe she was pregnant. After her short, ill-fated first marriage, Basch had always assumed that Ashelia would neither have nor want children. Even though she was the last of her family bloodline and it was her duty to carry on the Dynast-King's blood, no matter how diluted, in his mind's eye Basch only ever saw a widow of seventeen; a widow completely uninterested in men. In the back of his mind, he had assumed that she would carry on alone, that any prospective political husband wouldn't be allowed within a mile of her bed.

But this was no time to dwell on speculation when there were bigger things to worry about at hand. He stood, watching and waiting with great disquiet as the surgeons did what they knew best. As every minute, every second passed, his sense of foreboding grew stronger. It was a feeling he scarce felt, but standing there in that operating theatre, Basch felt powerless. He wanted to do something, anything that would help to save her. He simply couldn't face the fact that there was nothing that he could do.

Then the woman who seemed to lead the surgeons' effort shook her head. There was a genuine sympathy in her eyes, which Basch only briefly glimpsed as she kept her eyes only on the patient. Around her, the other surgeons placed their instruments down.

"We can't stop the bleeding," she said, her voice level but with her eyes still averted. "It will stop of its own accord eventually... I am sorry but she's lost her baby."

Malis fell to his knees and Basch felt like doing the same with him. But he couldn't do that, not here, not now. Ashelia would expect strength from him, if she expected anything at all.

"And Ashelia?" he asked.

The surgeon shrugged. "She is in Galtea's hands now. The fever that wracks her body could well kill her. The next twenty-four hours will decide whether her Majesty lives or dies. But either way… either way I fear that her Majesty will never again be able to bear children."

"Never?" The monosyllabic question came from Malis. He whispered it so quietly that only Basch heard. For the young man's sake, he repeated the question.

Again the surgeon shrugged. "I may be wrong. Many women who have miscarriages go on to give birth to healthy children but the manner of the wound and the fever that claims her changes things. I am sorry, but I do not think I have missed my guess."

"We are unanimous, I fear," one of the other surgeons added.

No more words were said. Basch stood as though frozen to the floor and watched Malis crawl across the floor to his wife's bedside. He no longer attempted to stop him. He had not the heart to try. His eyes, as though drawn by magnets, fell on and were only for Ashelia. She lay deathly still. Momentarily, he feared the worst but her breasts continued to rise and fall spasmodically under her nightdress. Once more, his gaze was drawn inevitably to the dark crimson stain.

The ice that had chained him to the floor melted in the fires of his rage. He tore his eyes away, turned on his heel and wrenched the door almost out of its frame.

There would be hell to pay.

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"Where are they?"

Judge Proxis inadvertently took a step backwards. Never before had he seen Magister Gabranth so angry, even though he kept his tone dangerously low. The coldness in the other man's voice stole the warmth from his blood. On the previous few occasions Proxis had met with his superior, Gabranth had seemed relatively benign, if a little withdrawn.

Now though, that impression seemed more than a little off.

"Who, your Honour?" Proxis asked hesitantly.

"The prisoners!" Gabranth shouted. Once again Proxis shrank back, but when the Magister spoke once more, he was calmer. "They are incarcerated here, are they not?"

As a member of the 4th bureau, the only arm dealing with putting the imprisoned on trial, and as one of the most important jailers in the dungeons of Archades, it was Proxis' job to know everyone who came in and went out. But the Magister was being terribly vague, though he didn't dare say that with the director of the 9th so angry.

"Which prisoners, your Honour?" He just managed to keep his voice level. But Gabranth closed the gap between them, casting his shadow over him menacingly and Proxis couldn't help but gulp with fear.

"The prisoners," Gabranth hissed into his face, "who attempted to assassinate her Majesty the queen of Dalmasca and countless Archadian lords this morning. I shall only reiterate this once more. Where are they?" he asked, enunciating every word with suppressed malice.

"I see…" Proxis said, trying to restrain his own fear. "Very few have been detained, your Honour. Many of them are dead. But I have orders to keep them in isolation."

"From who?"

"Magister Leris, your Honour."

"You will take me to them now."

"But Magister Leris said-"

"I care not what Magister Leris said," Gabranth interrupted, his voice rising again. "You take your orders from me now. You will take me to the most senior of them and you shall do so in a timely manner. Understood?"

Nervously, Proxis eyed the twin swords at Gabranth's belt. Better a harsh reprimand from Magister Leris than a sword through the gut. In the other man's present mood, Proxis didn't doubt that would be his reward for refusing.

"Yes, your Honour." Proxis detached the keys hanging from his belt, trying to pretend that Gabranth wasn't there watching his every move. The Magister began tapping his foot and Proxis fumbled through the keys faster, fearing the wroth of the Director of the 9th. Finally, he found the right key and unlocked the heavy door leading into the dungeons. "This way, sir."

They walked on down the gloomy corridors, Proxis leading slightly so that he wouldn't have to face the Magister's fearsome gaze, even if it was masked. "Have you established their cause and who their leader is?" Gabranth asked halfway to the cell, his voice somewhat calmer now.

"Yes, Judge Magister. I shall take you to the leader's cell. As for their cause, well they made no secret of it. They're members of the Landis Insurgency, the terrorists who murdered the Consul of Landis some weeks ago. Aside from that, they will say nothing except that they're proud of what they did."

"That is enough to be getting on with."

Proxis didn't quite like the sound of that. But at the same time he had no sympathy for the rebels. Whatever methods Gabranth employed were completely at his discretion. Considering his anger, Proxis imagined they would be among the harshest the Magister could dream up.

Proxis shuddered and didn't at all envy them.

A short, silent walk later, Proxis stopped outside one of the many, identical iron doors lining the corridors. He once again fumbled with his keys, searching for the right one. When he found it and opened the door, Gabranth stepped past him.

"I shall interrogate the terrorist alone."

Proxis nodded, his eyes travelling down to Gabranth's sheathed blades once more. Ordinarily he wouldn't allow anyone to enter a cell so armed but the other Judge slammed the door in his face before Proxis could utter a word of protest. Even if Gabranth hadn't slammed the door, he wouldn't have dared to bring it up anyway.

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It felt strange to be acting as a nursemaid for Penelo. Though Fran knew how to patch a person up and how to hygienically clean a wound that was about the extent of the care she'd ever been able to give. Before she'd left the Wood all those many years ago, Fran had been a Wood Warder, versed by Jote from a young age in ways of combat with bow and staff. It had been the Salve Makers, like Mjrn was training to be, who tended to ill Viera, be the illness physical or mental. She sometimes wondered whether Mjrn had managed to complete the training for her chosen path. The last time Fran saw her, after her possession by Venat, she hadn't even thought to ask. They hadn't spoken since. Fran had respected Jote's wishes and not returned to the Wood since, still fearful that the mother of all Viera hated her.

Well either way, Fran was sure that Mjrn would do a better job than Fran was doing.

The girl's sleep was undisturbed by nightly terrors now. Whatever drug the surgeons had injected her with was still doing its job. As such, Fran felt vaguely useless sitting there, just watching the girl sleep and unable to do anything to help. It was a feeling she was unfamiliar with. This was a very different job to fixing a glossair ring or breaking into a palace; the sort of things she was accustomed to. This was far more delicate work, too delicate for the Viera's fingers to manage.

All the same, Fran sat there with the unconscious girl, unwilling to leave her alone even though no harm could possibly befall her here. She felt an unusual sense of obligation to Penelo, one she hadn't felt for many a year for anyone (save Balthier). But over the years, she had come to hold the young sky pirates highly in her regard, something very few humes had ever managed to achieve. If she left now, as sky pirates were wont to do, she wouldn't be able to forgive herself the transgression.

And perhaps by staying, she would make up for the past failure of twenty years ago that haunted her to this day. Perhaps.

Fran wondered how much longer Balthier would be absent. He had gone some time ago, stating that he was going to look for some food. However, she had her suspicions that he was with Vaan. The surgeons had allowed them to see him some time ago but Fran hadn't dared to do so. It was bad enough that she had come to care about these people; she couldn't bear to watch them wither and die like flowers in winter. She simply wasn't strong enough for that, no matter how aloof she acted around others.

Sitting in the chair beside the bed, Fran considered what she saw lying in the bed. The girl was a waif, tiny in the centre of the massive bed, almost like a girl half her age. Her youthful features were relaxed, though her hair was in disarray, spread about madly on her face and pillow. At first glance, she looked incapable of looking after herself, but Fran knew better. At the cathedral, she had wielded an incredible amount of power (more so than she herself could wield) and used it, all to save Vaan's life. So sad that her effort had been rendered pointless.

Fran glanced up from her introspection when she heard a swishing noise. Penelo had thrown her covers off as she'd tossed to the side. Reaching forward, she grabbed the sheet and replaced it back up to under her chin. Penelo faced her now and Fran gazed thoughtfully into the girl's face. Penelo's would be a long recovery, particularly if Vaan died, but she would be there to help her every step of the way. Like she hadn't been before.

Leaning back, Fran lost herself in silent contemplation of the past, the present and what was to come.

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"We can walk down the easy path, you and I," Basch said, crossing his arms, "or we can wade through the murky waters of the hard one. It is your decision. Now, you are going to tell me everything."

"Fuck you, Archadian," the prisoner spat, restrained in his chair. "I'd sooner die than talk to the likes of you."

Basch sighed in annoyance. The prisoner was already trying his already tried patience. If he didn't co-operate soon, Basch doubted he would be able to restrain himself. Sitting down in the vacant chair, he placed his hands on the table set between them, his fists clenched.

"I would advise you to talk to me because one way or another you will talk eventually. You can either do so willingly, or…" He deliberately trailed his voice away. Better to leave him guessing.

The prisoner though didn't appear all that fazed. "Do you think you can scare me? I've been fighting you bastards for fifteen years. I know what your methods are. My people have suffered them, and I'm still here-"

"In an Archadian cell," Basch cut in, impatient with this man's theatrics. If he'd stopped to think, he would've supposed it ironic that he, a former citizen of Landis, should be the one to interview the prisoner. But he was too worried about Ashelia and too irate with the prisoner to care. "Believe me, if you do not talk, this place will be the last you shall ever know. You will be forced to talk, you will be put on trial and then you shall be publicly executed. However, if you co-operate, your sentence will be commuted to life imprisonment. Now, will you answer my questions?"

"Like fuck I will," the prisoner replied, spitting in his direction.

In a rage, Basch stood up and threw the table separating them to the side. It smashed against the wall. "Your name?" he demanded, desperately wanting to hurt this man, to destroy him for what he had done to Ashelia.

The prisoner, despite his former bravado, had seemed quite shocked by his rage, which gave Basch some sense of vindication. He hoped this terrorist was afraid, he hoped he was as frightened as Basch was. An eye for an eye. "No name," the man replied, his swift fright quickly repressed.

"_He mocks you. Remember it was he who hurt Ashelia."_

"Not good enough," Basch replied, stepping forward. Grabbing the man by the cuff of his shirt, he dragged him up, chair still bound to him and all. "Your name?" he said, keeping his tone controlled.

There was a brief flash of fear in the prisoner's eyes, not that that stopped him from responding, "None of your fucking business."

"_Destroy him."_

Basch snapped. With his free hand, he punched the man in the stomach, forcing all the wind out of him. As the prisoner coughed, Basch threw him and the chair back to the ground. It toppled over so that he lay on his side but rather than picking him up, the irate Judge simply rolled him onto his back. Crouching down, with one hand he grabbed the man by the throat, determined to strangle what breath was left in him out.

"Ordinarily, Archadian interrogators would begin with a slow beating, as I'm sure you know," Basch told him, his voice echoing menacingly behind his helmet. "But you see, you hurt two of my friends today. One of them was pregnant. She lost her baby and is fighting for her life. Does that make you feel proud? Do you feel that your cause was just now? And even had you not hurt them, I have no time for formalities. As it is, I have a bedside to get back to."

Their eyes met, the terror clear in the prisoner's eyes, and suddenly Basch recoiled in horror. What was he doing? He released his grip and stepped away, horrified by how he had just given into his rage. Despite his anger and fear, he'd never intended to go so far. It was like the thoughts that had run through his mind were not his own.

The man, still struggling to breathe, began to cough. Turning back, Basch hefted him back into a sitting position.

"Your name?" Basch asked again, still regretting his loss of temper.

"Talarm…" the man wheezed. "Talarm Jeron."

Surprised that he'd worked that much out of him, Basch pressed on. "You are a member of the Landis Insurgency, correct?"

"Y-Yes."

"What were your reasons for breaking into the cathedral?"

"Can I – Can I have some water?" the man responded. Basch only just heard him.

"Very well." The pitcher of water that had sat upon the table was shattered against the wall, but another rested on a smaller table by the door. Basch shakily poured the contents into the only glass, his thoughts distracting him. He held the glass for Jeron, whose arms were still bound. He gulped it down thankfully. "Answer my question," Basch said, once the glass was empty.

"Those were our orders," the man replied breathlessly. "We were to target Lord Farmalhaus but we wanted to kill as many Archadians as we could. We were proud to do so."

His defiance annoyed Basch slightly though he did nothing but ask the next question. "What grievance had you against Lord Farmalhaus?"

"We weren't told the reasons, merely the target. But we all knew that after the weakling Solidor's death-" Basch took a step forward and Jeron suddenly became meek, "that Farmalhaus would be the one to replace him."

"Was your organisation responsible for the death of Lord Larsa?" Basch asked, finally articulating the question that he'd been waiting to get down too.

"No," the prisoner answered. "Though we would've liked to have been."

That answer disappointed Basch, though he wasn't entirely convinced that Jeron was telling the truth. "How did you get in?"

"Some of your soldiers let us in. They showed us to the roof and moved the roofing tiles. We crept in while everyone entered the hall. As for the guys in the hall, well they had nothing to do with us. We were as surprised as you all seemed to be."

"Names." Basch listened as the prisoner listed more than a dozen soldiers who helped them. He memorized the names. They would be investigated later. "Was Queen Ashelia one of your targets?"

"Why? Did we kill Archadia's pet whore?" As soon as he said it, Jeron seemed to know that he'd said the wrong thing.

"_You see, he is unrepentant. Make him repent."_

Basch's vision was once more shrouded in red. He wanted nothing more than to kill the prisoner, to destroy him, to rip him limb from limb. He wanted him to bleed, to be in pain, to understand at least a fraction of the pain Jeron had caused him and Ashelia. Then, for a moment, Basch went mad. He picked the prisoner up again and forced him back against the wall. He raised a fist, ready to unleash hell upon Jeron, but the terror that he wore unmasked on his face gave Basch pause. His prisoner was bound, unarmed and unable to defend himself. No matter what he had done, no matter what grievance Basch had against him, he could not strike this man. His fist clenched tighter, shaking violently, but he dropped it back to his side nonetheless.

He turned his back on the prisoner, concerned with his second lapse into rage. "Say a thing like that again and you'll live to regret it. Answer my question. Did you intend to kill Queen Ashelia?"

"No," Jeron gasped. "It was an accident."

"What do you know about Emperor Larsa's assassination?" Basch asked again, swiftly turning back on his heel.

The prisoner's eyes registered confusion. "Nothing."

But this time, he didn't believe him. "Liar," he said, taking another step forward, "tell me what you know."

"I swear it had nothing to do with us," Jeron replied, bursting into tears. "I swear."

Without pause in his momentum, Basch continued the interrogation. "Who are the leaders of the Insurgency?"

"I don't know. But I have a contact! In the city! Her name is Hartel, Delana Hartel. She's the one who reports to the High Command. She doesn't tell us anything except what we need to know."

Basch blinked. The name rang a bell in his mind though he couldn't say where he heard it before. His anger and his fear for Ashelia's life clouded his mind. And Ashelia needed him now. But he would have this Hartel girl found. Taking a deep breath, he looked down to Jeron, now broken and weeping in his chair. Basch's anger had long since evaporated at the sight of him. With a whip of his cloak, Basch turned and left the wounded man weeping in the corner, already beginning to regret the way he had just lost his control.

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The hour had grown late; the shadows had lengthened and swallowed the corners of the room into oblivion. Still it encroached, seeking to drag them all down into the dark, held at bay by the light of a single candle. As long as that light burned, life carried on, such was the belief held in Archadia. Balthier remembered vaguely a night spent in a room such as this when he was young, a boy of no more than five years. Back then it had been his grandfather who the candle had burned for, and they had snuffed it out long before dawn's breaking.

The doctors had told him to expect the same for Vaan.

He was the only witness this time to make sure the candle wick continued to flare and dance throughout the night, though it was the continued rising and falling of the boy's chest which concerned him more. They'd told him to say his goodbyes some hours ago but still Balthier had yet to say a word. He couldn't, besides what value was there in words when they were intended for the deaf?

Vaan was stronger than his grandfather had been though, aided no doubt by the exuberance of his youth and his downright tenacity. Say one thing for the street rats of Rabanastre: they have an uncanny talent for survival. It was long past midnight, the hour his grandfather had succumbed and the candle still burned strong. He watched idly as a drop of wax rolled lazily down the length of the candle, all the way down to rest on the candlestick, determined to keep his eyes of Vaan for at least a second. It all hurt more than he cared to admit.

He felt anger at all this sometimes, a deep melancholy at others. Right now, his thoughts and feelings were stuck distinctly in the former mindset. He was angry at everyone: Vaan for getting himself in a situation such as this, the others for not being here to watch vigil as faithfully as he did (he couldn't find it in his heart to excuse either the princess or Penelo, despite their own infirmities), himself for not having been able to prevent this.

"_If you are so set on running, hadn't you best be off?"_ his father had said to him once, long ago in a different age, a different life. And of course, as always, the old man was right, even from beyond the grave he was right. He was a damn fool to have gotten himself attached to others, the very thing he'd sought to avoid in this merry life of sky piracy. He should be running but he was bound now by his own damn folly. He couldn't leave, even if he wanted to.

"Gods curse you, Vaan," he muttered. "Isn't it about time you should be waking?"

Vaan didn't answer, save by continuing on with his brave struggle to breathe. Though he wanted to believe it was but his imagination, it seemed to Balthier that his breathing was becoming ever more laboured.

He didn't bother calling for a surgeon, for there was nothing they could do and they, unlike he, had given up on the boy hours before. There was nothing to do but sit and wait and will Vaan to outlive this candle, and the next one, and countless more after that. It all rested on the street-urchin-now-sky-pirate now, and in the past, he had always pulled through no matter what the situation.

His breath was rasping now and he sounded as though all the air was being choked out of him slowly. Balthier lowered his head, hiding the tears in his eyes, though he knew not from whom. Perhaps from Vaan, perhaps from himself. Vaan's hand fell from beneath the covers and with blurry eyes Balthier gazed at it. It groped, as if searching for something, though there was naught but empty air to be found.

Touch.

That was what Vaan sought, that was what Balthier knew he ought to give him. But as he wept openly now, he couldn't. Though he knew that all he had to do was extend a hand to give Vaan what he so desperately desired, the simple action was beyond him. Balthier had never touched death before. He'd seen it many a time but to hold a dying person, enemy or friend was something he'd never done. Touch he had always reserved for the living; the friendly slapping of backs between sky pirates, the pinching of a wench's backside (and more if he was lucky), or even a punch reserved for an enemy.

But as he felt like he was dying anyway, why not break with tradition? He left his chair at the bedside, crawled forwards an inch or two on his knees and took the grasping hand between both his own. Vaan's grip was weak and seemed to loosen almost as soon as it held on. But he continued to breathe on, they both did, for now.

"You're a sky pirate now, are you not?" he asked. "Shouldn't you be running? Worry not about Penelo. I'll take her under my wing as long as I draw breath."

It was common knowledge that the assurances of sky pirates mean little and vows and promises even less, though Balthier meant what he said. He wanted to say goodbye, but his throat was terribly dry now and he couldn't think what to say. But Vaan seemed to understand. Balthier waited by his side, trying to say the difficult word until he perceived a sudden silence.

He let go of the hand and it dangled loosely towards the floor, its fingers grasping no longer. Balthier buried his face in the sheets then, to hide his tears, to hide the sight of the shell of the boy, no, the man, who had been more than just his protégé. He loved him as a brother would. Regret filled him, for now one page had turned over in the story of his life, never to be read again except as memory, sweet and bitter.

It took him a long time to control himself and he made little effort to try. For the first time in such a long while, he cared not about his defences against the world. Just this once, he had dropped them so he could weep for Vaan, may the world make of it what it will and damn itself to the Underworld. But after some time, he knew not how long, he drew in a deep breath and wiped his blurry eyes. Vaan was at peace, in a state of half serenity, the slight clumsiness that had been a part of him in life not quite forgotten in death. He bowed then, as an actor would to his audience as the final curtain fell. His eyes fell on the candle.

He snuffed out the light and waited for the morning he knew would never come.

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Meanwhile, elsewhere in the building, Ashelia's forehead burnt as though branded by flames while all Basch and Malis, united in their efforts, could do was to try and keep her temperature down in the small ways they knew how.

What neither of them knew was that Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca was beginning to go through the motions of the long process of dying.


	9. Threads

Chapter 9 – Threads

_She'd been walking for quite some time before a__ bout of tiredness suddenly came upon her, convincing her to stop walking and rest upon a grassy knoll. She stretched languorously, then settled down, lying on her back in the tall grass. Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the sound of the wind whipping past above her. The sound was quite relaxing, as was the place in general. She couldn't explain why, but she felt safer and securer here than she ever had anywhere else, as though the rows of grass were as secure as fortress walls. But even shielded from sight as she was, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss._

_It took her a little longer to figure out what caused that feeling; it was a sound she heard, not too far away, one she heard no creature make in this land save herself. It was the sound of a footstep. Curiosity winning out over tiredness, she opened her eyes and stood once more, the grass holding her close at the waist. But there was no-one and nothing to be seen, bar endless plains. Confused, she put the sound down to her imagination, but just as she was about to settle down again, she heard footsteps, closer than before. Looking around, this time it didn't take her long to spot the source of the sound._

_Someone was__ walking by some dozen or so paces to her left. How they had escaped her notice before, she knew not but she saw the person clearly now. The sex of the walker was impossible to determine, for they wore a heavy black cloak with a cowl raised, despite the pleasant warmth of the country. Whoever they were, they walked with purpose and did not turn to look at her. Too astounded was she to call out or follow them, for never before had she seen another person in this land. She had thought this place all her own. Her curiosity got the better of her._

"_Wait," she called, though she remained rooted to the spot._

_The person stopped and looked over their shoulder, though if they were as surprised to see her as she was to see them, she could not tell. They stood staring at each other for a moment, despite the cloaked person's face remaining hidden in shadow, before he (she assumed it was a he) gestured to her with a finger from beneath the folds of his black cloak._

"_A long path together you and I shall walk, Ashelia," he said, though his voice seemed so bizarrely distorted that Ashe still couldn't be certain that he was male. "You will come to me when you are summoned with the tolls. Until then, I bid you farewell and forget me, until you are called."_

_H__e turned and walked on, with every step becoming more and more intangible, wisps of blackness trailing off him like smoke, until the wind blew by again and scattered the person into oblivion. _

_And forget him in the waking world Ashe did._

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Her mind felt clouded, as through she were walking through the Mist. All was darkness around her, oppressive and holding close, though that was because her eyes were closed. It took a surprising amount of effort, tired as she was, but she was in no mood to sleep now. She forced the heavy lids to flutter open.

"Ashe!"

The surprised (and delighted, she thought) call came from her right. Though she immediately recognised the voice, she was hard put to place it. Slowly but surely things started to become clearer to her. The ceiling was an unfamiliar one, painted an inoffensive shade of blue. The bed she was lying in was a lot softer than the one she had in her palace, too soft for her liking. Then there was the slight throbbing around her stomach that she couldn't quite place. What was that anyway?

"Thank Galtea you're alright."

Remembering she wasn't alone, Ashe shifted her gaze to where the voice came from. Her vision was a little hazy but she could make out that the person sitting there was blonde. Her heart did a funny turn. Surprise got the better of her.

"Basch?" she rasped, only then noting how dry her throat was.

"What?" he replied.

Her sight came into sharper focus and she realized the man sitting on the chair at her bedside wasn't Basch at all. It was Malis. Her eyes wandered past him briefly. No-one else was in the room with them.

"Water. Please," she said, pretending the faux pas she had just made didn't happen.

While Malis jumped to the task with enthusiasm, not pushing the subject, Ashe took the opportunity to scan the room. It gave her no clue as to where she actually was. That concerned her a little. She didn't like to be ignorant of such things. But just as she was about to ask, Ashe felt the throb in her stomach again, but far more painful than the first time. She clasped her free hand over it, though it did little to ease the pain. A groan whistled between her teeth before she could stop it, attracting her husband's attention.

"Ashe, are you alright?"

She ignored the question. What was that? Was the baby kicking? She doubted it. From what the palace healer (the only member of palace staff who'd been taken into her confidence so early in the pregnancy) had told her, that sort of thing shouldn't be happening for quite a while yet. It didn't feel quite right either. Some of the women Ashe knew in the court had positively gushed when their babies kicked. She doubted they would do so if it felt anything like this.

"Ashe, talk to me." She detected a note of panic in his voice, something that intrigued her as much as it caused her worry.

"Where am I?" she asked, turning to face him. If his voice had seemed alarmed, his face was even more so. He held the glass of water before him like a miniature shield.

He didn't answer straight away and looked at the ground. She waited with disquiet as he chose his no doubt careful words. Finally he answered: "You're in the Recovery Wing of the Royal Surgeons Guild of Archades."

Ashe blinked. She hadn't expected that, and it took a moment for the enormity of his words to sink in.

"Recovery… Wing?"

Malis nodded. Somewhere in the depths of her mind, Ashe connected the two abstract ideas she struggled to understand on their own: her pain and her location. Put together they made the beginnings of sense; sense that was too terrifying for words.

She pulled up the nightdress (again something that didn't belong to her) to her chest in a panic and a daze. Ashe barely dared to look down. The previously flawless skin of her stomach was now marred by an unsightly scar. Panicked hysterical thoughts flowed into her mind like driftwood in a strong river current. She looked back at Malis, hoping he would say her worst suspicions weren't so.

"I'm so sorry, Ashe. You were in a fever and…" but his voice trailed away. His words confirmed what she already knew. She didn't need to know the details. With a maternal instinct, Ashe knew what had happened. She'd been injured, no, she remembered now, she had been shot. The pain she remembered not, but now it returned in different form. It manifested now as emotional anguish.

In her heart, she knew she'd lost her baby. Malis offered her his arms and his strength but Ashe recoiled. She turned to face the blue wall. Her body shook uncontrollably. She didn't try to stop herself. She didn't care.

"Go," she whispered.

She lay back down and didn't turn around until she heard the door open and close behind her husband.

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The surgeons had come to do their check-up on Penelo and had asked them to leave the room in none too kindly terms. Balthier hadn't taken too kindly to them either, meeting their insolence with a snarky comment before slamming the door, getting in the last word as always. However, just before he had closed the door, he saw disgust in their eyes as they glanced at Fran. The bigotry and intolerance of the greater number of Archadians was one of the reasons Balthier had left in the first place. He had half a mind to barge in there right then and give them a piece of his mind, though Fran had given him a look which he recognised all too well: the-don't-push-your-luck look.

All the same, he resolved to have further words with these conceited little people later anyway, preferably when Fran was nowhere in the vicinity. Besides, if they were half as bitter as he guessed they were, they could simply refuse to treat Penelo further; after all, she wasn't Archadian. Not that seemed very likely though, given that they had Basch on their side. In fact, he suspected that it was Basch who was paying for the treatment, which was certainly generous and gracious of him. He'd make a good gentleman pirate, a real rob from the rich and give to the poor type, if he wasn't so concerned with law and honour and all that kind of nonsense. Still, Balthier thought, that meant more loot for him – him and Fran that was.

Despite his station, Basch too had been ordered out of the room by the surgeons, but with suitably more deference paid to him. From the look of it, Basch hadn't been particularly pleased by the surgeons' behaviour either. Fran had simply shrugged it off with a stoicism Balthier would never admit he admired. It was just one of her many attractive qualities. At times like now, he could do with a bit of her stoicism.

They waited in awkward silence. In the room, Balthier could pretend that the reason they weren't speaking was in consideration of Penelo's condition. Out here, he had no such lie to hide behind. The simple truth was that the subject they needed to discuss was just too difficult to give words too. For a time, they lingered in the corridor, impatiently waiting. Glancing at Fran, he found her frowning at him with a sharp downward tilt to her mouth. Her eyes were hard as stone. There was no doubt that she knew what was running through his mind. That was Fran's way. She'd always been able to read him like a book.

"We must discuss this issue," Fran said, without elaboration. Basch lifted his gaze from his feet. "It will not do to let this matter hang."

"Vaan," Basch said, his tone distant. "How soon he joins his brother. Such a waste. Such a great waste."

"Indeed," Fran murmured, her voice steady. "We must discuss what manner of burial his body should undergo."

"He can be buried here," Basch said. "It could be arranged to have his body rest next to Lord Larsa's, interred with the highest of honours. Lord Larsa and Penelo would appreciate that I think."

"Maybe so," Balthier said, finding his voice from nowhere, "but is that what Vaan would want? Our little street urchin might not loathe the Empire as once he did, but I doubt he would particularly enjoy the notion of being buried in her soil either."

Basch bowed his head. "You are right, of course. He should be interred in the sands of his homeland."

"It is the best way," Fran said, looking to Balthier poignantly. "Were I in Vaan's place, I would wish to lie in the place that I love the most. Though I fear what the Wood might think of me, I would still rest under her boughs and soil, if she would have me."

"Then that's settled," Balthier said, clapping his hands with false gusto. "The sooner Vaan is returned, the better. I'll take him on the _Strahl_ tomorrow."

A slight look of dismay passed over Fran's face, but, at that moment, the door re-opened. The surgeons stepped out, their gazes once again lingering on Fran. He followed their path down the corridor, tempted to follow, but he stayed where he was. By the time he looked back, the Viera was as composed as ever.

As they entered the room, Balthier wondered where it was that he loved the most.

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The drawing room was supposed to be exactly as it had been found. Though he couldn't come out and make an accusation on naught but a feeling, Basch suspected something to be wrong. He didn't know how to describe it. It all felt somewhat… staged.

The maid who found Larsa in his chair the morning after had been questioned again and again by Basch all morning. He'd asked her circular questions, all the while getting nowhere. She knew nothing but what she'd seen, an emperor slain at his desk. But if there was one thing Basch could say he knew for a certainty, just one thing, it was this; Lord Larsa would not have sat back and allowed himself to be murdered.

But he had to confess, it was an immaculate conception. There was next to nothing to hint a cover-up. There was nothing to suggest the murder was anything but a simple assassination. But, for all the cunning of the perpetrators, Basch had tenacity on his side and if there was the tiniest of clues to be found to suggest treason in the palace, he would find it.

Slowly and with a critical eye, Basch circled the room. Had it not been for the death that had occurred here, it would've been a pleasant picture. He moved over to the desk, inspecting it with a sense of detachment but all the while knowing that this was where it had happened. The desk was as it normally was, scattered with pieces of parchment. However, there was little of help for his investigation. A letter penned by Larsa, unsealed unlike the rest, caught his eye. Not wanting to leave any stone unturned, he picked up the letter and read.

The letter had been to the Duke of Silisair, a man Basch remembered fondly from the days of the Archadia-Landis war, though he had never had the pleasure to meet the man. Reading the letter stirred something within him. Here was a boy, almost a man grown, full of life, ready, able and willing to perform his duty. That one such as he should be slain out of hand was a travesty, not just for Ivalice, but for everyone who knew him.

Basch wasn't a believer in revenge. To him blood only bought more blood. An uncontrollable rage had seized him that day in the prison but he had not then been himself. Now under normal sensibilities, Basch vowed he would bring the killer to justice in a way which would not bring shame upon him. After all, it was his vocation and civic duty to dispense with justice.

The letter hadn't aided his investigation in the least, though out of sentimentality's sake he held onto it, though it served for naught but to cause him heartache and rekindle his guilt. Just as he was about to place it back where he'd found it, the postscript caught his eye.

'_P.S. I hope my last letter found Delana well. Ask her for me and give her my regards.'_

Shocked, he re-read the line again, as if what he'd just seen was an optical illusion. His eyes wandered up to the top of the page: _"To his Grace, Arinus Hartel…"_, then back to the bottom,_ "I hope my last letter found Delana well."_

The person behind the name of Delana Hartel, which he'd been trying to place for a day and a night, finally came to him. Daughter and heir presumptive of the duke, she was better known as a famous beauty. Her blonde hair shimmered like a fiery sunset, they said, though he knew little else of her. Yet only the day before, right out of the prisoner's mouth, he had discovered her to have contacts with the Landis Insurgency. And Larsa had been writing to this mysterious girl. Not only that, he appeared to have stricken up a friendship with her. Invisible webs of conspiracy for the first time became apparent to Basch and he couldn't disentangle them. But at the heart of them all resided this princess of Landis. Though he had been unsure what to make of the name when he first heard it from the prisoner, he knew now that she had to be found swiftly.

Excited by this first realistic lead, he pocketed the letter and left the drawing room, glancing at the clock. It was high time to leave anyway. Zargabaath had called the entire Magistracy to convene at the High Court, something which (apart from a few days ago) hadn't happened since the war with Dalmasca. Though before he went, he decided it would be best to freshen up first, for even in the spring it was stifling in his armour. He had time, and he wished to examine the letter again, to see if it yielded any further clues.

Making his way by the straightest path, Basch soon found himself walking down the Corridor of Heroes, the main thoroughfare which led to the soldier's barracks. Even in his current mood, he couldn't help but admire the sculpting of the marble statues of noble emperors and fierce Judge's now long dead. He was just walking past the statue of Emperor Vanire, founder of House Solidor, when a glint in the light, swiftly muted, caught his eye at the foot of the plinth.

Now curious, he bent down to find a dagger lying there, very well hidden behind the statue. Only the tip of the blade remained unhidden. It was fortunate that the electrical lighting hit it the way it did. Without that gleam of light, Basch wouldn't have spotted it at all. Withdrawing it carefully though, he found it not to be a mere dagger. It was a letter opener over two hundred years old, one Basch knew to come from the desk of the emperor, having seen it countless times. And that threw the proverbial spanner into the works. There was definitely something unusual about all this, first the letter and now the letter opener, both ordinarily typical items with an air of mystery about them.

Why it was there, he could only guess, but he knew one thing at least. No hand but the emperor's was allowed to touch this heirloom of House Solidor. With piety, he pocketed it, unsure what all this meant.

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"What do you think of Lord Lershell's claim then?"

Looking up from the papers he was reading, only then did Basch notice that he hadn't taken in anything he'd just read. Zargabaath stared at him intently but politely, a document held loosely in his own hand. They were alone now in the room, the other Magisters having gone about an hour before. They had only been briefed on the situation; only he was to help.

"I'm sorry?" he apologized, wondering when he'd gone off into a world of his own.

"Lord Lershell, Gabranth. I believe you know of him. What do you think on his claim to the throne?"

"Oh, my apologies. I was-"

"-Preoccupied?" Basch nodded. Zargabaath stared back with empathy. Basch supposed he wasn't the only one who had to shoulder a heavy burden. If anyone knew what a preoccupied person looked like, it was Zargabaath.

"Yes," he answered, though he didn't elaborate. "To my understanding, House Lershell is too insignificant to make a realistic bid for empire. But the head of the house is a good man. I've spoken with him once or twice, as you say."

"All the same, the family has been implicated in numerous scandals over the years, largely due to the exploits of Lershell's seven sons, none of whom would be fit to wear the mantel of emperor."

"Perhaps, but is it not enough that Lord Lershell himself is of sound character? Let us not forget that Archadia was a democratic empire. There is no guarantee his sons would sit the throne."

Zargabaath shook his head "But was House Solidor not unchallenged for two hundred years? Besides, Lord's Vayne and Larsa put down the Senate for good. If not even Larsa would see the Senate reinstated, I doubt Lord Lershell, a good man though he may be, would return to the old ways. No, we're stuck now with hereditary rule."

"Then he is unfit," Basch concluded.

Zargabaath made a little note on a scrap of paper. Then, setting pen and paper aside, the Magister Superior reclined a fraction in his chair. "Tell me Gabranth, what is it that troubles you? I think not it has aught to do with the succession."

Basch averted his gaze. Where could he possibly begin? There was so much that weighed heavily on his mind. Lady Ashelia, who he had been unable to protect, now childless. Penelo who he felt a duty to, Vaan who had died in the night. The scene of the cathedral still haunted him, the scene of bodies and blood and a sacred place defiled. In the centre of all, a coffin left unattended and a maid crying over the prone body of her queen. Then there was Larsa, the young lord he'd failed. Then he remembered further back, to Nalbina, to King Raminas and to Lord Rasler, to the fall of Dalmasca and even earlier to the fall of Landis.

Basch was a man with a lot on his mind.

Then there was the mice chasing their tails in his mind. Since he had returned, Basch had been caught in a tangled web of lies and deceit. His hand strayed to his thigh, where beneath his clothes he carried the letter opener. Conspiracy was afoot, but its tracks so well veiled he felt like he was running around in the dark, clutching wildly at threads. He had little to go on but a name and a knife.

So what could he say to Zargabaath? Despite the circumstantial evidence, Basch now saw traitors at every junction.

"Basch, are you quite alright?"

"Yes, but might I speak with you of something, in confidence?"

A curious look crossed the Magister Superior's face. "Of course."

Basch took in a deep breath. "I feel like my sight has become clouded of late. Zargabaath, there is somewhat that bothers me about Lord Larsa's murder…"

And he told Zargabaath everything but for the memory of the woman close to his heart. His failing of Ashelia was his own business.

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After a long deliberation and several more rejections, Basch and Zargabaath finally adjourned at a late hour. The sun had long since shed its last for the day. For the second time that week, he left Zargabaath's office feeling like he was carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders, something that even confiding in the Magister Superior hadn't helped him with. Indeed, though Zargabaath had been interested in what Basch had to say, he thought the evidence too circumstantial to be worth tearing apart the very innards of the government for. So they had returned to their work.

However, even he hadn't been able to explain the presence of the letter opener.

Walking out of the High Courtroom once again, he looked to the stars and the city and wondered. Archades was a different place at night. Unlike Rabanastre, Archades rarely slumbered. The desert nights made Rabanastre a cold, frigid place but Archades suffered no such disadvantage. The city was always bright whether by natural or artificial means, so much so that the stars themselves were difficult to spot. Its people always seemed to stride with purpose, even at night, especially around the collection of mismatched buildings that made up the court district where the gates were always open. The law, like many other things, never slept in Archades.

Though the hour was late, he still had business keeping him from going to his bed. Doubt and uncertainty still gnawed at his mind, no matter what Zargabaath had said. Something had to be done, even if it meant going under the Magister Superior.

Bypassing the high courts, he made for a white building constructed of ancient stones from the mountains. It was shunted off to the side, as if its very existence was something they wanted to be kept quiet. It was easily the oldest building in the district, and every time Basch saw it, more and more it seemed to be crumbling into dust. Most people assumed it had never been demolished due to its history, having once been the seat of power when the Magisters ruled Archadia in Raithwall's day. But in truth, it was now the secret headquarters of the 9th Bureau, his Bureau, which dealt with the handling of information.

Inside, the building was falling apart just as much as the outside. The grand pillars supporting the ceiling seemed tired, and disconcertingly seemed to sag, as though they were tired of their age old burden. Basch passed them by, walking through the deserted foyer where, in the morning, tourists from all points of the compass would be led around this historical monument. But there was always someone at work deep in the underbelly of the building, down in the deeper places that the tourists never saw. Entering the communications office, he found a team of three men and a woman working on various tasks, routing through personal histories, troop movements, secrets which never left the building on pain of death. Momentarily, they stopped their work as Basch entered the room, and for the most part looked back to their work a moment later. However, one of the men stood from his desk; the ranking officer.

"Your Honour, how can I help you?" he asked.

Captain Marmen had been in the 9th since Basch had inherited it and was one of the few who knew he was a different man in the armour of his brother. Though Basch hadn't confided it in him, the captain had been shrewd enough to guess. This shrewdness disconcerted him sometimes, as he wondered just how much this man really knew, but it was this competence which made him the perfect man for the task he had in mind.

"I need some information about a woman called Delana Hartel. She is from Landis, daughter of the Duke Silisair. I believe her to be in the city. I want her found and every scrap of information the 9th has on her."

"Certainly, your Honour," he said with a bow, not inquiring as to why, "but it shall take some time."

"Very well. This is of the utmost importance. Please report as soon as you find something of note."

Their exchange ended, Basch once again left the building. He didn't notice the shadows stir in the doorways behind him. He didn't realise that every word had been heard and remembered. Nor did he realize he was being followed when he arrived at his unofficial place of business.

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"Go away!"

Something smashed on the other side of the door, most likely a glass from the sound of it. Though a part of him desired to respect the command, Basch knew it would cause more harm than good if he did. At any rate, he was reluctant to leave her side, ancient obligations and younger feelings of friendship telling him to stand his ground.

"Ashelia," he said, knocking on the door again. He had vaguely hoped her birth name would sway her. But while there were no more violent crashes, no other sound was made either. Basch tried the handle, though, as he expected, the door held fast. He knocked a third time. "Ashelia, will you speak with me?"

There was a quiet thump on the other side of the door. It was a different kind of noise, duller but just as close, though what it was, he couldn't fathom a guess on.

"What do you want?" Her voice, though quieter now, was easy enough to make out. He supposed the heavy thump he heard was Ashe leaning against the door.

"I wish to speak with you."

"On what matter?"

"None," he answered simply.

There was no answer on the other side. Then there a click and the door opened a crack. In his heart, Basch felt a sudden pain. Despite most of her face being obscured, Basch could make out one rather puffy, reddened eye.

"Then why do you come?"

Basch carefully considered his answer. A wrong one would see the door slammed in his face, never to be re-opened. "Because you need a friend," he murmured.

The eye stared back sadly, yet coldly. "I have no need for aught anymore."

"Aye, perhaps. But I do."

The eye retreated and the door opened fully. She held the door open with lukewarm reception. She stood frozen to the floor, standing as staunchly as though she was a beautiful ice sculpture. But this statue was beginning to thaw. Beneath her nightdress, he could see her knees shaking, something he had never seen her do before.

They shared a look that said nothing yet everything at the same time. They both understood that they were bound tight at the waist by common misfortune. But the gap between them had never seemed wider then it did in that moment, he standing in the doorway, she standing no more than three feet away.

"Where is your husband?"

"His sister died," she informed him stoically. "I could see the conflict in his eyes. I love him though he is somewhat weak-willed. So I made his decision easier for him."

The small talk evaporated into nothing and Basch dropped his eyes. He hoped Ashelia took the gesture to be deference.

"You know, don't you," she stated. He looked back up and nodded. When he did, she visibly began to sag more than ever. "I have thought much this day and night. I have thought on so many things …so many things." Basch took a step closer, closing the door behind him. To his surprise, she didn't flinch. In fact, she didn't even seem to notice. "You saved my life. I suppose I should thank you. But in my heart I wish you had left me there to die.

"I remember a time which I have thought much on, when, in the eyes of the world, I was reduced to nothing, a child with no name and no purpose. I had lost my husband, my family, my very kingdom. I believed I had been undone by one of Dalmasca's finest. When I was 17, never had I felt more wretched. I thought I knew then what it was to suffer. But…" she choked, swallowed and carried on, "…I see I was wrong and now… now it is all immaterial. Side by side, you and I fought for my heritage. I appreciate the risks you took for me in those days, but now I should give it all away if the gods would but grant me my child."

Frozen tears rolled down her cheeks without shame. There was a time when she would've rejected such a display of sorrow as weakness. But not now. The Ashelia that Basch had known was dead. She would never return.

He knew he should comfort her, embrace her even, to prove that she wasn't alone, that she still had friends. But though in his heart he knew it was right, Basch's mind held him back. She was still a queen, his queen, no matter what might have happened. The Distance, laid out by the Order's code of chivalry, had to be maintained. And so he stood, unable to comfort her, and so she stood, unable to be comforted in this darkest of hours. She wept a river and all Basch could do was guide her to her bed, his hand hovering over the small of her back, to sit and continue to cry alone. He never touched her. She was not his to touch.

The Distance had to be maintained, after all, and he was already dangerously close to breaking it.


End file.
